Second Sight
by Tangwstyl
Summary: The team investigates a kidnapping, but will two of them get more involved in their own personal lives before they find her? Starts off preseries and then picks up between Dispo Day and Double Cap
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is not my first foray into fanfiction, merely my first stab at a different venue. Hopefully, I'll get this right also. If you wanna check out my other stories, go to or to or my livejournal account under this name, tangwstyl (I'm the only one there, so no worries about getting the wrong girl). This story comes out of my love for the character of Tim Speedle, who never should have been killed off, despite Rory Cochrane's desire to cut down on the filming schedule. I think, had the producers actually thought about things instead of getting a knee-jerk reaction and being slightly juvenile about it, Rory might have stuck around a bit longer. Oh well, coz I'm like years too late to voice my objection. My thanks to Addie Logan, who said go for it when I said I was thinking about writing this, and who agreed to beta it for me. Disclaimers prove that I own nothing but the plot and the original characters, everything else belongs to Bruckheimer and company._

Prologue

It wasn't the Agramonte, or even the Hilton, but the Cardozo was still one of the nicer hotels on the beach. Catering to an avant-garde crowd, they rarely got calls to the place. But twice in the last couple of weeks, the day crew of the Miami-Dade Crime Scene Investigations had to respond to the hotel owned by Gloria Estefan and her husband.

At least this time there was the possibility of finding the victim alive.

Hopefully.

Flashbulbs went off every couple of seconds in the background while the red-haired lieutenant questioned the reporting witness. "Miss? What can you tell me about your friend?"

"Ah, she's here on vacation. Well, we came down for the convention. And she's from New York, but she's not a citizen." Noting the very slight change in the man's expression, the slim brunette started rambling. "Look, does it matter? Sorcha wouldn't disappear. It's not like her."

The lieutenant smiled. "I understand. How long have you known Sorcha?"

"Since she came over from Ireland. About six years."

"Okay. Do you have a picture?"

The girl produced a grainy print of a digital photograph. "I got one of the other girls to print this for me. It was taken yesterday."

Horatio Caine stared down at the smiling face of Sorcha Hannagan. "Pretty girl. We're going to need a statement from you. Adele, would you?" He nodded to one of the detectives, directing his witness to her. "You hang in there."

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"Horatio." Two of his detectives, Tim Speedle and Calleigh Duquesne, waved him over to where they were standing by the bed.

"She didn't go willingly." Speedle's voice was pitched low, almost mumbling, so that no one else but the three of them heard him.

"Why do you say that?" Horatio peered down at the marks.

"Look at the scratch marks on the headboard." He pointed out the fresh furrows. They were long and horizontal, like the victim had dragged her nails across the wood, fighting from being removed from the bed.

Calleigh picked up from there. "Pattern repeats again here," she pointed to the wall, "and again here." The night table had similar furrows, identical to the naked eye. All three surfaces were smeared with a dark substance, which, when tested, turned out to be blood.

"Get those to DNA. Maybe she fought her kidnapper, too."

Horatio stood up, walking toward the door. "See if you can get any prints. Have Delko check the stairs and every elevator. We're in a race, people. Let's see if we can find her before something worse happens."

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Yelina Salas approached her sometimes partner and former brother-in-law, notes in hand. "No one saw her after midnight, when she went to bed. There were a group of girls in a nearby room, but there was too much talking. None of them noticed anything."

"What kind of convention is this?"

"You're not gonna believe this." Yelina smiled, shaking her head.

"Try me."

"A psychic's convention."

"So our victim is a psychic?" At Yelina's nod of agreement, Horatio remarked, "Too bad she didn't see this coming."

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They had nothing.

Hours later, after all the convention attendees had been questioned, which thankfully wasn't much since it was only the early arrivals, they still had damn little insight.

They knew the victim. Sorcha Hannagan, aged twenty-six, born in New York City, raised in Ireland; County Kildare to be precise. Returned to New York when she turned twenty, worked for a law firm as a paralegal. Spoke fluent Spanish, French and Irish. And saw ghosts, read auras and worked as a medium in her spare time.

They knew her blood type. Her genetic make-up. Knew she had a rare eye condition that could eventually lead to blindness. Her shoe size. Her fingerprints.

Favorite color.

Best friends.

Family.

In short, the Miami Dade criminalists knew everything that mattered about Sorcha Hannagan, except one.

They didn't know where she was.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I'm not quite sure yet, if this story is going to carry any ship, although there will be hints of relationships outside the workplace, I'm not really sure if I'm going to head down that road. . . We'll see. And for you time-line fanatics, this story started pre-series and now picks up between "Dispo Day" and "Double Cap". Disclaimers in full force and effect._

One.

He'd been rattled. And more than that, he'd been truly scared. Not much had the ability to scare the living shit out of him anymore, and the fact that this had, made him feel off-balance and unsure of himself and everything else. Now, on top of that, he was pissed. Tim knew he was acting like an ass, knew his behavior was setting off flares and warnings with not just IAB, but with his boss. He couldn't help it. He was beyond pissed.

And all his anger was self-directed. _Should've cleaned my gun. Should've been the one driving. I should be dead. Not Hollis. Man had everything to live for, wife, kids. Me? I'm nearly thirty years old and all I've got is this job. . . . _

Yanking open the door to his locker, Speed slammed it against the adjacent one. Then, when it sprang back at him, he slammed it closed once, twice and on the third slam, banged his head for good measure.

"Speed?" The soft voice of his colleague sounded in the quiet aftermath of his outburst, covering his harsh breathing.

"What?" He didn't bother looking at Laura, knowing the expression on her face would be one of friendly concern. "Have you come to lecture me also?"

"Ah, no. I just thought I'd let you know I finished the tests you wanted. Your results are in." Laura bit her lip, wondering if she should deliver the other message. Hesitating long enough for him to notice, she finally spoke again. "Alexx was looking for you."

"Okay. Thanks." Without looking at her, he blew past her, heading straight for the Trace lab and avoiding the morgue.

He couldn't deal with Alexx right now, or her motherly concern and caring. His guilt and self-recrimination were enough. She should be focusing on Hollis or another victim, not him. Tim winced when he pushed through the door, the pull of bruised chest muscles reminding him he'd been shot not that long ago. Like he needed the reminder.

Enclosing himself in the lab, Tim focused on the evidence Calleigh had found. A wry smile, the only one of the day, crossed his normally stoic features. She was still bouncing off the walls, the contact high from inhaling concentrated cocaine dust making it impossible for her to focus on anything.

At least thinking about her and her current predicament took his mind off what had happened the day before. It was bad enough he hadn't slept, he didn't need to dwell on it during his waking hours also.

Blocking out all external distractions, Tim Speedle focused on the evidence.

Evidence, after all, didn't require emotional engagement.

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Horatio had sent her home, amused concern in his expression at her condition. Calleigh was normally perky and fairly upbeat, but this was Calleigh hyped up on cocaine and frankly, Horatio was hard-pressed not to laugh at her. If the situation hadn't been so important, he might have. He also knew nothing productive was going to be forthcoming from his ballistics expert and when she finally crashed, she was going to crash hard. So he metaphorically patted her on the head and sent her home.

If she'd been more herself, Calleigh would've balked, but she knew that wasn't happening today. Her brain was sizzling, unable to remain focused on any one single thought, random revelations careening round and round in circles until one popped out of her mouth. She was mortified when she told the polygraph tech her father called her "lampchop," but she couldn't keep her mouth from blurting it out.

Calleigh realized, with an air of embarrassment, that she couldn't keep her mouth shut about anything. Couldn't stop talking. Or moving. It was like her brain and body were buzzing madly with electricity and everything was happening around her in fast forward and slow motion at the same time. One moment she was standing in front of Horatio, hearing him tell her to go and the next she was standing in the locker room, staring at the contents of her locker.

_Oh, God. What's happening to me? This is crazy. I can't concentrate. . . can't focus on anything._ Calleigh belatedly realized she was hyperventilating. And though she tried, she couldn't control it. _Yoga is supposed to help. Why isn't it helping? I need to breathe. I am breathing. Too fast._

"Cal? How long you gonna stand there talking to yourself?" Tim's voice broke through her rambling monologue and Calleigh nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Ah! Don't sneak up on me!" Her hands fluttered between her chest and the locker, the only outward sign of her complete agitation.

"Sneak? Pretty hard for someone my size to sneak." Tim shook his head, moving past her toward his own locker.

"Oh, God. My brain is. . . how do they stand this?" Calleigh turned to watch him put his off-duty gun and badge on the top shelf, then start to unbutton his shirt. "How can they function like this? Every thought I ever had is itching to come out of my mouth and I . . . I feel like a . . . I told Horatio I felt like a hummingbird on caffeine, but that didn't really come close. And you need to tell me to shush."

He'd turned slightly to face her, watching her flitter and fluster. Amusement played about his mouth for a brief moment, but was quickly gone, replaced with a more familiar blank expression. "They don't function, Cal. They meltdown after a while."

"Oh." She paused, her body deflating for a second. "What are you doing?"

In the time she'd stopped rambling, he'd slipped out of his dress shirt and pulled a dark tee-shirt over his head. His usually unruly hair stood up almost straight from his head, and Calleigh couldn't suppress the giggles. "Fix your hair."

Frowning, he ran a hand through it quickly. "Need to get out for a bit. I'll be back later."

He snagged his back-up gun, badge and helmet, preparing to leave her alone again, but the sound of her voice stopped him before he got to the door. "Tim? Be careful."

Tim sighed, impatience with himself and not Calleigh making his leg twitch. "You too, Cal."

And he left her alone, with her acid butterfly thoughts.

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She'd gotten better at reading him; his moods, and the agitation signaling his need to move, change location. The one thing she could rely on, after all this time, was his intense paranoia. Gonzalvo Enriques was quite possibly the most superstitious man she'd ever met, and that was saying something.

In the beginning, she'd been too scared to make note of his quirks and habits, but with the passage of time her fear had dulled. Now, she made use of his superstitious nature, playing on his idiosyncrasies to protect herself. She had no idea exactly how long she'd been with Gonzalvo – if that was even his real name – the time before was blurred in a haze of fear. But now, at least lately, she'd been keeping track of time.

Sometimes she wondered if anyone was still looking for her. If anyone still cared. She knew her parents wouldn't ever give up, would keep looking and keep the pressure on the authorities, but she wondered if the authorities even cared. Sorcha wasn't even sure of where they were currently, he'd moved them so many times she'd lost count of the number of places. He rarely let her out of his sight, either, and in the beginning he'd drugged her every time they'd moved.

But that had stopped a couple of months ago, when he found out she was pregnant. The drugs and the occasional beatings had all stopped. Something she was grateful for, but Sorcha knew it was only a matter of time before he resumed them. His daughter was four weeks old.

Four weeks.

Added to the nine months before.

Added onto the lost time.

Sorcha had no idea how long she'd been missing.

But maybe it was time to be found.

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Everyone had finished their depositions for IAB, and Horatio had the preliminary statements on the shooting in his hands. He'd read and re-read everything more than once, trying to wrap his head around the whys and wherefores of the whole thing. He couldn't understand what Speedle had been thinking, or rather hadn't been thinking. First and foremost a scientist, there were times when Speed forgot he was also a police officer. Unfortunately, it appeared the shooting was the wake up call he needed. Or at least that's what Horatio was banking on.

He knew Calleigh was concerned about it also. And if her reaction was anything to go by, she'd either already said something to Speedle about it, or was intending to tell him. Horatio wracked his brain, trying to come up with some way to let Speedle know, without being too heavy handed. He'd leave that to Calleigh.

Staring down at the statements, Horatio smiled slightly when he realized he had the answer right in his hands. Adding his initials, he checked his watch and headed for the door. He'd have just enough time to get what he needed and be back in time for the shift change.

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It was another week and one plane flight before Sorcha could actually start on her plan. She found out accidentally, when Gonzalvo was planning their move, his intention to return to Miami. Taking that as a good omen, since it was Miami where she'd gone missing, Sorcha feigned sleep when Gonzalvo's men came to get her and the baby.

They still didn't drug her, but she stayed still while Hector tied her hands and feet. It was easier to not fight, easier for both her and the baby. Using the carrier he'd strapped to her before tying her up, Hector deposited the tiny infant inside, laying her against her mother's belly. He knew she was awake, could feel the minute tension in her limbs relax the instant the baby was back in her arms. There was nothing he could, or would, do to help her. His loyalty was to his boss, El Comadreja, the man she knew as Gonzalvo.

Sorcha stayed quiet, her arms tied tightly around the bundle of her daughter. Most of the time she thought of the baby as not hers, but times like this, when there was the threat of separating the two of them, that she realized while she wasn't entirely happy about the circumstances, she didn't want to lose her daughter.

The car ride was short, and though she was tempted to peek from beneath her closed eyes, Sorcha had learned not to take the chance unless she knew exactly where everyone around her was located. It was a harsh lesson, and it had taken her a long time to recover from the beating. Thinking back, she realized it was also the last beating he'd administered, since not long after he discovered her pregnancy. Now, she kept her eyes closed whenever they moved.

Once more Hector lifted her up, carrying them up the steps into the plane's cabin. It was a small private jet, a Cessna Citation, with the interior customized for all Gonzalvo's needs. This one was strictly for his use; the working planes were much different. Despite his lifestyle and his profession and compared to others of his kind, Gonzalvo was low-key and practically non-existent. He was a shadow among shadows, living in the gray world that peopled the drug and arms trafficking between the States and South America. Reviled in one country and lauded in the others, Gonzalvo was king of his own small fiefdom.

And he'd wanted Sorcha.

She hadn't known that day, in the hotel, what was in store for her. Had there been any inkling, any foresight, she never would have read his cards. He'd caught her eye, and she couldn't help herself. The sight came upon her so suddenly – that alone should have been a warning. But her visions rarely concerned herself. Or if they did, it was obscurely, in round about ways.

He'd sat at the bar, watching her with hawk-like intensity, his eyes rarely leaving her form. She'd blushed and flustered, mentioned it to her companions, and foolishly not hesitated when he'd asked her for a reading.

That had been her first mistake.

Her second had been turning down his invitation for dinner. Women never turned him down.

So he'd had her snatched from her hotel room.

And now he was bringing her back to Miami.

Maybe this was his first mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I have no idea how long this story is going to be. . . and well, if anyone's ever read my BtVS fanfiction. . . ah, you'll understand why I'm hedging my bets. Anyway, there's a story here to tell. . . so I'm just gonna tell it. For the purposes of this story, I've slightly altered the layout of the hotel mentioned, mainly because it fit the story line, my apologies to anyone who's offended by this. Disclaimers in full force and effect (legalese for I don't own anything except the plot and any original characters mentioned_

**_Previously: _**A twenty-six year old Irish-American girl disappeared in 2001; a year and a half later, she's still unfound. Tim Speedle survived the disaster of Dispo Day as did Calleigh Duquesne. . . . this picks up shortly after Dispo Day, but before Double Cap.

Two.

Hector watched her, his dark eyes trained on her every move. She was restless, almost pacing from one end of the room to another, her disquiet communicated easily to the infant she sought to comfort. The baby had been whiny, crying throughout the night, unwilling to nurse. He didn't know much about babies, but had a feeling this wasn't normal. He couldn't ask if she needed help, couldn't offer her any support at all. His orders were strict and explicit. _Watch her, but no speaking. Ever. _

El Comadreja knew that if she talked to her guards, there existed the possibility they would become sympathetic to her plight and aid her in some way. He wanted her isolated.

Sorcha fought the urge to walk to the window, instead swaying from side to side, trying to soothe the fractious infant in her arms. In her head, she had named the baby, but because of Gonzalvo's paranoid superstition, she refused to say it out loud. No doubt Gonzalvo had his own name for the baby, which more than likely differed from hers. It hardly mattered. When the time came, the baby was going with her. She'd die first, before she'd allow him to keep the baby.

Humming old lullabies her mother had sung to her, Sorcha finally managed to calm the baby down. She had to keep her calm and quiet, otherwise Gonzalvo would assume the worst and steal them away, no doubt to never return to the States. Laying the baby down in her basket, Sorcha brushed a gentle hand over her dark curls, whispering a prayer in Gaelic for the angels to keep watch over her and keep her safe. Tears sprung to her eyes and Sorcha straightened up, refusing to look at her jailer. Hector wasn't a bad man, and sometimes she sensed a softening of his attitude and a rough protectiveness for her and the baby, but it was always fleeting and tenuous.

Exhausted and nearly at the end of her rope, Sorcha dropped down onto the soft leather couch lining the inner wall of the room. They were on the ninth floor of the Marseilles Hotel, in the penthouse suite, overlooking the always popular South Beach area. Gonzalvo was out on the terrace conducting business. She'd long since given up trying to listen to his conversations. Like defiance, eavesdropping had engendered more than one beating.

Gonzalvo allowed her access to books and DVDs but no television. And where before Mairin was born he'd threatened her when the visions didn't come, now he cajoled and coddled her. Sorcha didn't know which was worse, living with the open brutality or trying to pretend the subtle torture didn't exist.

Either way, she knew she had to try and escape, had to find some way out.

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There were four suites on the penthouse floor, each suite had access to the rooftop helipad from private entrances; while the main hotel had access via a single elevator. They were currently occupying the north-eastern suite, overlooking the beach. Sorcha had free reign over all the rooms, save one. The men were occupying the suite directly to the south, while two other unrelated parties occupied the other suites. They'd been there for three days.

El Comadreja watched his guests, suspicion blooming in his head. He didn't trust either party, though he sensed only one was deliberately lying to him. Deciding he needed another opinion, and far better insight than he possessed, Enriques gestured his guests to continue.

"Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen."

His English wasn't heavily accented, in fact, his years abroad had reduced it to a mere seductive lilt; one that had lured more than one rival into a false sense of security and reluctant female to his bed. Getting gracefully to his feet, he tendered a quick apology. "I will return shortly."

Heading directly for the main sitting area, he wasted no time. He needed her, moments like this one were precisely the reason why he'd taken her. Without any greeting he held out his hand to her. "Come."

Sorcha looked at him, her eyes noting his barely controlled agitation. They'd been through this more than once. Whenever he had a "feeling" about someone or some situation, he'd drag her into it, expecting an answer from her. Sorcha had learned very quickly to have something for him, no matter what the situation. Only once had she asked to use her tarot cards, and she'd done it so quickly he'd not had a chance to beat her for it. Now, though, the knot in her belly and the lightheadedness that presaged a vision were already coursing through her.

Gracefully, using his outstretched hand for leverage, Sorcha got to her feet. He led her out of the room, leaving Hector and the baby behind, to the terrace. The bright light blinded her momentarily, and she blinked away the sudden tears. Her gaze immediately fell upon the two men sitting around the table, gauging them.

He never expected her to speak during these moments, in fact he preferred she kept her silence. The accent she'd never managed to hide or mask always gave her away, and he wanted no questions about her identity. The two men were both of average height, one stockier than the other, and both were clad in light, summer-weight clothing, a sharp contrast to the dark clothing Enriques always wore.

Enriques sat, his hand tugging Sorcha behind him. He didn't bother introducing her, nor did either of his guests expect one. She came to stop behind his chair, her free hand settling on his shoulder. Releasing her other hand, Enriques settled back, almost resting his head against her, watching his guests through slitted eyes. Sorcha ignored their conversation, focusing instead on the other two and their reactions. When she had her answer, she gently squeezed a shoulder, then, trailing her hand over Enriques' shoulders, she left the terrace.

These meetings exhausted her.

Though at least he didn't parade her around like a prize, didn't advertise her importance.

These days, Sorcha was very glad for such small mercies.

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Early the next morning, just before the sun broke over the horizon, the sound of sirens and emergency vehicles broke through her restless sleep, and Sorcha fought against the hands suddenly pulling her from the bed.

There was no warning, no whispered plans to prepare her for the jarring. A hand covered her mouth and a harshly worded warning sounded close. She fought off the hand, clawing at the back of it, drawing blood. She somehow managed to get her fingers around the wrist and remove it from her mouth. "Baby."

She felt, rather than heard, the small form being placed next to her, as the hand covering her mouth moved. "Callate, bruja. La policia estan aqui."

She knew better than to make a sound. The baby, however, was another story. Woken from a sound sleep and not understanding, the five week old began fussing and fretting. Soft bleating cries sounded from her and Sorcha gathered her close the instant Hector removed his hands. Panic began to settle in her belly, the fear of what would happen should she be unable to calm the baby sending her heartbeat racing. Thankfully, though, the proximity to her mother calmed the infant and her mouth moved reflexively, seeking a breast.

Not caring if Hector was watching her or not, Sorcha bared her breast and let Mairin suckle.

The atmosphere in the penthouse was tense, their guards openly wearing weapons. She could glimpse two of them standing by the door to penthouse, listening at the door intently. The silence was unnerving and Sorcha couldn't help wondering if this was going to force Gonzalvo into leaving Miami. Despair crashed through her, as she believed her hopes of rescue were being taken away.

The sounds of rapidly spoken Spanish broke through her growing sorrow, though Sorcha couldn't catch more than the barely hissed comments. They were moving, as soon as the police left.

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This was fun. In the way that wasn't. Tim wasn't sure what he hated more, being called out at barely five-thirty in the morning or having to process yet another hotel room. After a while, they all started to blend together, the only ones standing out either the really high-end places, like this one, or the bottom end of the spectrum, wherein the drug paraphernalia was decidedly more prevalent. _Well_, he thought, _usually more prevalent. _Heroin works, and a decidedly suspicious white substance littered the bathroom of the north-west penthouse of the Marseille, along with lovely amounts of bright red blood.

Two bodies were contained therein, the first decedent was located in the bathroom, arm tied off and slumped over the edge of the jacuzzi. The second was in the bedroom, on the far side of the bed, only the feet visible from the doorway. Cause of death in the bathroom was pretty evident, though he preferred to wait until Alexx pronounced and toxicology reports came back. His first thought was accidental overdose and suicide, but Tim held off mentioning that. Instead he focused on photographing everything, the smell of blood and body fluids hardly even registering.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway and Tim looked up in time to see a barely awake Calleigh moving toward him, her eyes watching her footsteps. "I got all that, just come in."

She whipped her head up to look at him, an entirely too bright smile on her face for this ungodly hour.

"Hey, Tim." He merely grunted his response, to which she smiled even wider. "What's the matter, not awake yet?"

Tim stared at her for a moment, a reluctant smile beginning to form on his features. It was really hard not to smile around Calleigh, no matter what the circumstances were. Even amidst the worst, goriest crime scene, she sported a cheery disposition. He often wondered how she managed to keep the bright facade, and other times he was beyond certain she was slightly unhinged. "Not really."

"Are we the only ones here?" She moved around him toward the second body, and stopped short at the end of the bed. "Did you get this?"

He stopped photographing the entrance to the bathroom, turning around to face her. "Not yet, why?"

"Come look at this."

He moved to stand behind her, and stared down at the body. "That's gonna make identifying him difficult."

She looked over her shoulder, finding him closer than she expected. "Is Horatio here yet?"

"He's interviewing the maid." Tim stepped around her, camera already flashing, capturing the corpse from all different angles. "Maybe you should look around for the head."

"Aw, Tim, you were here first." When all he did was stare at her pointedly for a moment, Calleigh sighed, giving in. "Fine, but you owe me on this one."

His low chuckle warmed her insides, and she smiled a bit to herself as he muttered under his breath, "Sure, next time we get something really icky, I'll do it."

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"Lifestyles of the rich and idle." Horatio shook his head, listening to the summary his detectives were giving, his mind whirling with possibilities.

"Have we questioned any of the other guests?" From the blank looks from the faces in front of him, he assumed not. "All right, Adele, would you mind interviewing the neighbors? Someone had to hear something. Separating someone from their head is bound to make some noise."

She nodded, then moved out of range, heading for the penthouse in the south-west corner. Horatio then turned to his criminalists, asking them, "What have we got?"

Calleigh was the first to answer, "Dead body number two, well cause of death may or may not be beheading. There's not really enough blood for that. We need Alexx to make a final determination. Time of death is sometime around nine, according to body temperature."

Tim broke in then, saying, "Which conflicts with the first dead guy. His time of death is approximately four hours later."

"So, what we have is a headless body that died first and then an overdose." Horatio paused for a moment, surveying the crime scene. "Any ideas?"

Speedle answered for himself and Calleigh. "I'm thinking the overdose in the bathroom was staged, since the scene is too messy. Also, found a set of footprints that don't match the rest of the scene."

"Good work. Let's get this scene bagged and tagged and back to the shop."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: For the purposes of this story, I've slightly altered the layout of the hotel mentioned, mainly because it fit the story line, my apologies to anyone who's offended by this. Disclaimers in full force and effect (legalese for I don't own anything except the plot and any original characters mentioned_

**_Previously: _**A twenty-six year old Irish-American girl disappeared in 2001; a year and a half later, she's still unfound. Tim Speedle survived the disaster of Dispo Day as did Calleigh Duquesne. . . . this picks up shortly after Dispo Day, but before Double Cap.

Four

Twelve hours after the maid called it in; the last cop cleared the crime scene at the Marseilles. Hector was at the door, watching while the rest of the guards moved their belongings to the helipad.

Sorcha was in the bedroom, redressing herself and preparing Mairin for the helicopter ride. She winced as she pulled the loose sundress down over her torso. Enriques hadn't been gentle – he rarely was – and she frequently sported bruises on her inner thighs and belly, and sometimes on her breasts. Tonight, she was sure there was going to be bruising; Enriques had been particularly rough, agitation making him careless.

It was too soon for her anyway, not that he cared. She'd started bleeding again. Gingerly getting to her feet, Sorcha headed for the bathroom, intent on cleaning herself.

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"Hey, Calleigh, you up for a road trip?"

At the sound of his voice, Calleigh looked up from the microscope. "Why?"

"I've got a hunch and want to follow it up." Speedle hung by the door of the lab, looking quietly hopeful at her answer.

"Oh, hunches. I like those. Sure, I'll go." She pulled off her gloves and unbuttoned her lab coat. "I'm ready."

Less than twenty minutes later, they were back at the hotel, getting clearance from security to re-evaluate the scene. On route, they'd avoided talking abut the case, instead focusing on other things. Attempting to keep Calleigh diverted from talking about the case or getting on him about keeping his gun clean, Tim asked her how long it had taken for her to come down from the cocaine. That subject kept her going until they reached the elevator, where Calleigh abruptly turned to him, smiled very sweetly and said, "That was very slick, Speedle. Now you care to let me know why we're back here?"

He stared at her for a minute, brief amusement flashing in his eyes, but it was gone quickly. "Worked, didn't it?"

Calleigh gave him an exasperated sigh, but refused to budge. "Talk, Speedle, or I'm gonna pick the radio station on the way back to the lab."

Knowing this was more than an idle threat, since she'd subjected him to the worst country music on earth, Tim slightly relented. "We never checked the helipad for trace."

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Ten minutes after that, Tim's hunch paid off. Minute traces of blood were found on the door leading from the penthouses to the helipad. They got a partial thumbprint from the door jamb, and more blood residue along the wall, at a height Calleigh estimated to be at fingertip length. There were no drop marks or spatter patterns and even odder, at least to their thinking, the blood didn't originate at the murder scene.

Tim found residue on the door to the north-east penthouse suite, and calling out for his partner, he pushed open the door with his foot. She appeared at his side, weapon drawn and game face on. Nodding once at each other, Tim drew his own gun and quickly stepped inside the door, moving to the side to let Calleigh follow.

The penthouse was dark, the only illumination coming through the open windows, most of which faced east. The French doors were open, sheer beige curtains billowing in, snapping and fluttering from the ocean breeze. The pair quickly quartered the main living areas, making note of the evidence of recent habitation left behind.

Moving in tangent, they headed for the master bedroom, feet silent on the plush carpet. This time Calleigh took the lead and her eyes were drawn immediately to the unmade bed. Blood smears covered the sheets, and she holstered her gun while Tim checked the rest of the room and the bathroom.

"Speed, look at this." Calleigh unnecessarily pointed out the blood.

"Got it." He holstered his gun, looking around at the rest of the room. "Cal," he knelt down, pointing at, but not touching the bloody knife on the floor, half under the bed. Judging by the hilt, which was the only visible part, it was a fairly large hunting knife. "Could be one of our murder weapons."

"Could be. I'll go get the kits. You better call Horatio." Calleigh said all this as she peered over his shoulder, one hand resting unconsciously there for balance.

They stood up at the same time, Tim reaching for his cell phone while Calleigh suited action to words and exited the penthouse.

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Blood samples had been sent to DNA and Eric was working on the prints, while Tim was checking the sheets for trace elements. Horatio had praised him for following through on his hunch, which actually eased some of the anxiety he'd been feeling lately about his level of competence. Tim knew his science – in fact it was one of the few things he was certain of; it was his competence as a police officer that he had problems with. He'd never actively thought about being a cop or a crime scene investigator as a kid, nor while he was in college. It was only after he'd wandered down to Miami after Rob's death that he'd even thought about it. So praise from Horatio about his police work was something he took to heart.

He was lost in thought, earphones on while he ran tests, when he caught a glimpse of Calleigh heading his way out of the corner of his eye. _Really hard to miss that head of hair. _Tim moved his earphones down around his neck, knowing just by her smile she had interesting news.

"So I ran the specs on the knife, and against our John Doe torso." Her lips were twitching with the need to smile, so Tim put her out of her misery.

"And?"

"Tool marks match. But that's not the best part." She was practically bouncing with excitement, which amused him, though he chose not to show it. It would only encourage Calleigh to gush, because she only did it to annoy him. And she knew it. So he waited her out, a bland expression on his face.

"So what's the best part?" He finally asked, when it was clear she wasn't going to share until he did.

"This is an MK III Combat knife, military issue. Good news is that it's not standard military issue. This knife is preferred by Special Forces, specifically, Naval. Like the SEALS."

_Well, that was interesting news._ He hadn't expected that at all. "So our suspect is a Navy SEAL?"

"Looks like."

"Huh."

"I know! Not what I was expecting." Calleigh twirled the blade in question, both of them focusing on it.

His phone ringing saved him from having to reply and Speed flipped it open without checking the incoming number. "Speed. Okay, be right there."

Turning to face Calleigh, he said, "Valera wants to see us."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

"Got results on the blood samples you sent me." Valera paused, grabbing a printout from the table behind her. "Samples came back as menstrual blood mixed with semen."

Neither detective flinched, and Valera continued her verbal report. "There were fairly high concentrations of HCG in the blood."

"Wait. That's not possible. Menstrual blood with HCG?" Speed stopped her before she could continue, confusion clear in his voice.

"Actually it is possible, if the female has recently given birth. The hormone levels don't drop back to normal right away, they can remain elevated, sometimes up to six months later." She looked down at the report, adding. "Besides, I double checked after I found that and also found prolactin in her blood."

Calleigh shared a look with Tim that Valera couldn't interpret and didn't bother to try. "Okay, can you tell how long ago she'd given birth?"

Valera was shaking her head. "Sorry. Can't do that. But I can tell you who she is."

She handed the printout over, pointing out the name at the right side of the DNA information.

"Are you serious?" Calleigh stared at the report, then looked up to gauge the expression on Speedle's face. Speed was stunned and his expression actually reflected that.

"You're telling us . . . This report. . . " he stopped, then started again. "The menstrual blood is from a vic from a case almost two years old?"

"I checked the results twice. The girl in the penthouse was Sorcha Hannagan."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I'm not sure if this is going to venture into NC-17 territory, but with me you never know. It all depends on how the characters speak to me. I make no promises, so if those of you who know me, know I'm not just blowing smoke when I say I just don't know. I know what I'd like to do with some of them, but I can't make them do what they don't wanna do. Hopefully that made sense. Sorry this took so long to update, but I changed betas recently (I'm using my full-time beta now, Spikeslovebite, who edits all my BtVS stuff (and hopefully I'll be able to convince her to edit all my writings). And I know, I mislabeled the chapter numbers (I skipped chapter 3, my bad). Disclaimers in full force and effect._

Five

They didn't go far – only as far as a private estate on one of the Keys. Sorcha had no idea of their exact location or who owned the house they were currently occupying, nor did she much care. The only thing that mattered was the baby's safety and secondly her own.

She'd done what little she could by leaving traces of herself behind; watery, bloody fingerprints that no one saw her leave. Hopefully, it would be enough for the police to track her, or at least know she was still alive.

Any hope was better than none at all.

Sorcha settled into the queen-sized bed, pulling the sheets up over her shoulders. Curling an arm around Mairin, she cuddled the fractious baby close. The baby didn't fly well, the air pressure caused her problems and it always took her hours to calm down.

Gonzalvo had doubled their guards, bringing in more men from his base somewhere in South America. Hector was no longer the only one guarding her, but the others deferred to him. With his presence there was a small measure of safety and comfort. Perhaps she was becoming to used too her prison, because she wasn't frightened of Hector at all. He wasn't the most imposing of the bodyguards; however his demeanor demanded obedience. Just over six feet, with dark hair and light brown, almost topaz eyes, Hector was very attractive, even moreso than Gonzalvo. Despite his penchant for sleek, handmade European clothing and his well-groomed appearance, there was always something dark and oily about Gonzalvo that wasn't present in Hector. Sorcha had long given up trying to figure it out, though.

She looked up at him, finding his gaze on her and the baby. There was a soft look around his eyes which she'd been witnessing more and more lately. Sorcha smiled at him, and though he didn't return the gesture, Hector moved to block the view of the other bodyguard and stared down at her. "Sleep well," he whispered, before moving smoothly toward the door.

It was the first time she'd heard his voice spoken directly to her, and the small kindness brought fresh tears to her eyes. So much time had passed since she'd heard a note of concern and caring in someone else's voice, she almost didn't know how to react. Brushing a kiss over Mairin's brow, Sorcha closed her eyes and tried not to dream of rescue.

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Calleigh stood at the door of the Trace Lab. She was watching Speedle work, his attention wholly on the trace found at the two crime scenes. Though there had been no body and no real crime committed in the other penthouse, Horatio had declared it a secondary scene because of the evidence and the identity of one of the occupants. It was up to Speedle to find more physical evidence beyond the knife that might link the two.

Trying to find who the knife belonged to was proving difficult, so she'd come looking for Tim just because she needed a break. Knowing him, and she was pretty sure she did, he needed one also. Besides, her stomach was growling.

"Hey, Tim." There was no reaction from him and Calleigh rolled her eyes.

_Headphones._

A couple of steps and she was inside the lab, standing next to his lean form. Calleigh waited, an impish smile playing about her lips. Tim was still unaware of her presence, the music and science absorbing all of his attention. She was finding it hard not to laugh at him, which only got worse when he started drumming his pencil against the table top. Calleigh was barely able to get a hint of what he was listening to through the earphones, but his drumming indicated it was something with a driving beat and heavy on the cymbal action. Tim moved to his left unexpectedly, bumping into Calleigh and catching both of them by surprise.

"Speed!" She stumbled back a little, grabbing onto the table to catch herself before she fell.

"Geezuz, Calleigh! What the hell were you doing?"

"I was watching you. I came in to see if you wanted to go grab something to eat?"

He was about to tell her no, even had his head shaking negatively, when a loud, mournful growl sounded from his belly. She stared at him for a long moment, unable to keep the amusement from sparkling in her eyes, when her own belly gave her away. Dissolving into helpless giggles against the table, Calleigh started shaking her own head. "C'mon, Speed, you can't deny you're hungry."

Deadpan, though his eyes started to spark with mirth, he said, "For a second I thought we had the Call of the Wild going on in here."

Calleigh's giggles rose again. "Nah, more like the hungry gator mating call."

At that, his composure broke and Tim actually broke into a smile. "Even for you, Cal, that was bad."

More giggles, and she tried breathlessly to get the words out. "Oh, I know, but I don't care since I got you to laugh."

"That wasn't me laughing, Calleigh." He shook his head, removing the earphones from around his neck and turning off his iPod.

"Trust me, Speed, coming from you, that was a laugh." Taking a deep, calming breath, Calleigh flipped her hair back off her face. 'C'mon, let's go."

"All right. Lemme just set this next test up."

Nodding her agreement, Calleigh waited the few short minutes while he lined up the test tubes and placed them carefully in the mass spectrometer. He worked smoothly and quickly and before she had time to get lost in her thoughts, Tim was tugging on her arm and moving toward the door.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He didn't like the way the new guys were watching her. Had a problem with at least two of them, and he wasn't entirely certain how to broach the subject to El Comadreja. Once Sorcha settled down in the bed with the infant, Hector motioned the other two out of the room. He didn't dare leave her alone with them, something about the way Lopez followed her with his eyes spoke of barely suppressed . . . he'd call it aggression, but that wasn't entirely it. Felt more like Lopez viewed her as less than a person, merely the boss' fuck-toy, and that really bothered him. She wasn't like that at all.

Sorcha wasn't cut out for this life, wasn't coping well at all. Hector had watched her leave her fingerprints on the wall and on the door, blocking the view from the other bodyguards. He'd said nothing, hoping that somehow the police would find the traces of her occupancy and follow the trail to her.

His orders said nothing about the girl; nothing about rescuing anyone. They were explicit and exacting. _Gather the intelligence needed, file the reports, and let the others in more overt positions take action_. But he was finding it more and more difficult to maintain the facade of uncaring bodyguard. She was an innocent and she needed to get away from her captor. This was the part of undercover life he hated more than anything else, but until recently, he'd had no problem with it, or anything else he was forced to do.

And this certainly wasn't what he'd set out to do while he was in the Academy.

Keeping his implacable facade up, he moved to stand in front of the door to Sorcha's bedroom. He was the only line of defense she and the baby had, and even then he couldn't protect either of them from the one person he should be. El Comadreja. _The Weasel._

The man he was spying on was, right at this moment, screwing another woman while the mother of his child slept behind him. He sneered internally, wondering if his orders extended to assassination. It certainly was beginning to look like the only way to remove the threat to both international security and Sorcha.

Hank Campbell, currently known as Hector Calzados, folded his arms over his chest, staring down Lopez, merely raising an eyebrow at him. Lopez stared back, then grunted a bit before wandering off. Hank stared at him, wondering just how long it would be before he killed the other man.

It was going to be a long night.

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Dinner – or rather, the almost midnight snack they were sharing – had proven to be a surprisingly relaxed affair. Tim had decided while he followed Calleigh out of the building that he was going to leave the cases behind and focus on nothing.

It was always a hard thing with him. Some of the victims left a lasting impression and, more often than not, he found himself using little mind tricks to keep from seeing their faces like some sick slideshow in his head. Focusing on nothing in particular was much easier with Calleigh around. If nothing else, she could always be counted on to bring up something unintentionally funny and trivial to distract him.

And once again, she didn't disappoint him. Right now, Calleigh was going on and on about some movie star or another, touching on all the gossip, and she was adorably funny. It was hard not to laugh at her and Tim decided he wasn't going to try. For once, he wasn't going to let everything get to him. Maybe then some answers about the cases would come to him. Or maybe he'd stop seeing the faces of the victims.

Twenty minutes later, after she'd gone on and on about some movie she'd just seen – the main female character had killed her lover with poison distilled from flowers – and how faulty the science was, he looked at her and said, "Cal, you were watching a movie and thinking about the job?"

It was something so totally unexpected of her that he had to ask, though he inwardly cringed the minute the words were out of his mouth.

The look on her face spoke volumes and she sheepishly dipped her head. "Well, yeah. Don't you?"

The admission went a long way toward easing something knotted in his belly and Speed shook his head. He mumbled something low, and when Calleigh called him on it, he repeated himself. "I'm always thinking about the job. Sometimes they follow you home, you know? Like lost puppies or something."

She leaned toward him, whispering conspiratorially, "You know, sometimes I think that's why Alexx talks to them."

He couldn't believe she'd just said that either. "Cal, sometimes . . ." He shook his head, uncertain of his thoughts. "Never mind."

Tim grabbed the check, fishing into his wallet and dropping down a more than generous tip. He didn't wait for her to follow him, heading for the cashier, determined not to follow his line of thought. He'd had more than one trippy experience with Alexx and her scary, almost Ms. Cleo thing, but he really didn't want to get into it with Calleigh.

She caught up with him just outside the door to the restaurant, her hand on his arm. "Hey, what was that all about?"

"Nothing." He shrugged her off, his steps purposeful. She paused for a moment, then hurried after him.

"Speed?" She reached for his arm again and he halted, though he didn't look at her. "Wanna talk about it?"

He huffed out a deep breath and they were close enough that it ruffled her hair. He shook his head, still looking away. When she didn't move her hand, he looked down at her. "I just have a hard time letting go."

His voice was pitched so low that she had to strain to hear him, but Calleigh knew what he meant and how much it cost him to admit that much.

"We all do." Her voice was kind, the drawl not as pronounced as it sometimes was, and her smile wasn't blinding. "You remember the Caplins?"

Just the name conjured up images he'd really rather forget. "Yeah. I remember."

Calleigh stared up at him, sympathy in her jade green eyes. "I had nightmares for weeks about them. Those poor babies and it was their daddy that did it."

Speed swallowed heavily, fighting the gorge rising up in his throat. That case had been horrific and he wasn't ashamed to admit, at least to himself, there had been more than one sleepless night afterward. "Bastard."

He didn't say anything else, and they stood there for long minutes, both of them lost in thought. Calleigh looked away and her hand on his arm tightened. "We're gonna find her. I know it."

Neither one of them bothered to pretend that she wasn't being anything but optimistic.

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Rough hands tried pulling her from the bed, one clamping tightly over her mouth, the other wrapped in her curls. There was no light, nothing to reveal her attacker's identity. Sorcha panicked, trying to loosen the grip of the person holding her. Her flailing arm struck the baby and Mairin began crying. The hand in her hair loosened, then yanked harder, ripping out her hair by the roots. In reflex, she bit down hard, forcing a loud grunt of pain from her attacker. Mairin's cries increased, her tiny lungs giving off as much volume as possible.

Fighting hard to protect Mairin and to keep from being dragged from the bed, Sorcha bit the hand again, this time breaking the skin. A loud shout from her attacker followed, and he climbed up on the bed, sitting on her waist. He pinned her down, slapping her across the face hard enough to jar her teeth

"_Callate_, you fucking bitch! Puta!" He kept muttering imprecations at her, punctuated by his fists. Sorcha tried kicking him off, but he clamped a hand around her throat, holding her down. "Shut the fuck up, bitch."

His next blow struck the baby, whose cries escalated into panicked screams. Sorcha reacted instantly. She bucked up, lifting her hips off the bed and curling her fingers into his face. Pushing him off, Sorcha drew up her legs, kicking out hard. She succeeded in getting him off her and scrambled to gather the baby in her arms. Curling around Mairin, Sorcha held on tight.

Lopez stared at her from the end of the bed, his eyes wild, blood welling in the cuts she'd made. "Shut that fucking baby up or I'll shoot it," he growled at her, brandishing a knife.

"Put the gun down, Lopez."

A new voice broke in, and Sorcha's head snapped up in its direction.

"Fuck you, Calzados."

"Lopez, right now no one but us knows about this. If you don't drop the gun, the boss is going to find out. He'll want you dead. Drop the gun."

"Why do you care about this bitch?"

Hank didn't shift his attention away from Lopez, but he addressed Sorcha. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, all the while trying to soothe the wailing baby, not caring about anything else.

"Get off the bed and come here." He moved in closer to the bed, one hand held out for Sorcha, the other with the pistol trained on Lopez.

"If she moves I'm going to kill her."

"No, you aren't." Hank moved closer, his gun inches away from Lopez' head. "You let the girl live and you live."

Sorcha eased from the bed slowly, cradling the still hysterical infant to her.

"Drop it, Lopez."

Lopez fired, narrowly missing Sorcha. Hank didn't hesitate, shooting Lopez in the temple, killing him instantly. Sorcha started shaking, and Hank grabbed her, pulling her in close. Blood splatters covered all three of them. "You're okay, she's okay. I promise."

"He. . . why did he do that?" The baby was cradled between them and he absently dropped a kiss on the downy curls crowning the top of her head.

Instead of answering her question, Hank said, "Get ready to leave. Boss will've heard the shots. He's gonna move us."

Letting her go, Hank pushed her toward her clothing, then turned to leave the room. "Don't waste time."

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Gonzalvo was livid. First, he'd been forced to move after his men botched the job of removing his buyers. Hector's interruption was something he normally didn't tolerate, especially when he was with one of his women. Now. . . . now he had to move again, all because one of his men thought he could touch what belonged to him.

Lopez was lucky he was already dead.

If he wasn't already dead, the things Gonzalvo had just done to his corpse would've killed him anyway.

Yet none of that left him feeling satisfied. He was still seething with fury. His nostrils flared as Orlando entered the room. "What?"

"Helicopter is ready, Jefe."

"You made sure the woman is gone?" They both knew he wasn't talking about the witch.

"Yeah, she's gone."

El Comadreja moved toward the door, casually wiping off the blood from his hands. Idly dropping the towel to the floor, he questioned, "Where is she?"

"She's with Calzados." He waited a heartbeat, then asked, "What do you want me to do about this?"

"Nothing. Leave him."

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"AFIS came back with no hits." Eric Delko looked up as Speed entered the lab. He kept talking, not waiting for a reaction. "So I switched databases and tried INS. I got a hit one set. Guy's name is Ernesto Gutierrez. He's wanted in three countries for trafficking."

"So he's one of the good guys." Tim's tone made Eric grimace, but he knew exactly what his partner meant.

"Yeah. Nothing on headless guy." He pointed to the photographs laid out on the table.

"Great. We have no way of identifying him then." Tim moved aside a couple of the pictures. Inspiration struck him and he asked, "Have you tried Interpol?"

"Why would I do that?" Eric lifted his head, looking at his counterpart from beneath furrowed brows. "We don't normally check with them."

"I know, but since the other guy is wanted in three countries, maybe his buddy is too."

"We should clear it with H first."

"Clear what with me?" Both men looked up, wry expressions on their faces. Once again, Horatio Caine's habit of walking silently caught members of his team unaware.

Tim spoke up, running his theory by the lieutenant. The older man quickly agreed, giving Eric the go-ahead. Shifting over to the computer housing the hook-ups to the fingerprint databases, Eric quickly set up the protocols for hooking into the Interpol system. Within minutes they got a hit.

"What's it say?" Horatio was standing back, too far away to read the fine print on the screen, but judging by Eric's sudden change in posture they had something.

"Prints come back to a Jorge Vanegas. He's a suspect in at least ten different cases and apparently the Brits want him for questioning on a majority of them. He was born in Gibraltar, which could explain why they want him." Eric listed the most recent crimes, and Horatio shook his head.

"Well, we can inform Interpol we've got their man, only he's not going to be answering charges any time soon." He turned to leave the room, remarking, "Nice work, Speed."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I know hardly anyone is reading this, but I'm going to finish it anyway. I altered the events of Double Cap just a bit, compressed some scenes and changed some others. Hopefully no one will be that upset with me. Disclaimers in full force and effect, meaning I own nothing but the plot and the original characters._

Six.

Valera was analyzing hair samples left over from the graveyard shift when alarms started going off in her head. The DNA samples from the victim were a bust. Nothing hit in CODIS. However, she got a hit from the strands of curly dark hair from the crime scene. She stared down at the printout, not really believing her eyes.

She ran the test again.

And a third time, just to be sure.

_This is so freaking weird. Horatio is definitely gonna need to see this. _Valera resealed the evidence envelopes, marking her notes and initialing the report.

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Horatio had just left Trace, after giving Speed the gun cleaning kit. He'd known the younger man had been having issues with the events surrounding the disaster of Dispo Day, and Tim hadn't reacted well during his deposition with IAB either. Despite IAB's rather improper line of questioning, Tim's reaction hadn't been appropriate. And no matter how much any of the brass complained, Horatio had no intention of docking his pay or suspending him. There was no way he'd be willing to lose his best Trace analyst, even for a day.

He'd overheard Calleigh and Tim in the hall the other day, and he'd known of the problem before either of them mentioned it. Although chaotic, it helped that his memory was damn good – it was part of what had helped him rise to the top of his field. Saying nothing to Calleigh about her reluctance to file her reports or to Tim about his negligence, Horatio had taken matters into his own hands.

His mind for once decidedly blank, Horatio made his way through the labs to his office. As always, there was far too much paperwork, so while he had some down time, he was going to tackle that.

Maxine Valera, one of his newest technicians, caught him just as he was passing DNA.

"Lieutenant?" He paused, waiting for her to catch up with him. "Have you got a minute?"

"Sure. What have you got?"

"Graveyard had a call out on one of the Keys." When he made a face, Valera shrugged. "Don't know why they got called in, except the scene was pretty brutal and the locals couldn't handle it."

"Okay, go on."

"Anyway, I got no hits on the victim. Nothing in CODIS, though I'm not sure if anything came back from AFIS. The good news is; I did get some stray hairs on the scene." She handed him the printout and Horatio stopped dead in his tracks.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Ran it three times just to be sure."

"All right. Thank you, Valera." He moved past her, retracing his steps back toward the Trace Lab. "Good job."

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Hector had them nearly barricaded in a small bedroom in the new safe house. They'd been here for two days now, and Sorcha was slowly going mad. She'd heard the order come directly from Gonsalvo himself, so she knew it wasn't Hector's fault they were locked away, but it still didn't help her mood any.

There was only so much she could do, stuck between the four walls. In addition to losing her mind, her temper was beginning to fray. Mairin was sleeping, her tiny form curled in the center of the huge bed, while Sorcha paced the short distance between bed and walls.

She had no way of knowing that Gonsalvo was making arrangements to move them. He was going to take them out of the county.

Time was running out.

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Another hotel. . . . Another wonderful collection of body fluids. Tim always stifled his instinct to reach for the sanitizers and anti-bacterial soaps when he left one of them. He hated hotel rooms.

Really, truly.

Thankfully, this particular hotel room wasn't the crime scene itself, merely a secondary site. Once he and Delko were done processing it, they only had to check the tape from hotel security.

After watching the tape twice, Tim found what he was looking for and paged Calleigh.

The instant she walked into the AV lab, he realized he hadn't thanked her – nor had he apologized. She slid into the chair next to him and Tim swallowed heavily. "Hey, Cal?"

"Yeah?" She turned toward him, a bright smile on her face. "What's up? You look so serious."

"Ah, that thing . . . I just wanted to say thanks."

Calleigh stared at him for a minute, eyes wide and uncertain, unsure of what to say when he spoke again. "And uh, I'm sorry I snapped at you." She continued to stare at him and his leg reflexively started shaking, showing how nervous he actually was, so Tim just mumbled again, "So thanks."

"Oh, Tim. . . . " Calleigh was at a loss. She really didn't know how to respond. He'd caught her so off guard with his thanks and then thoroughly floored her by his apology. She clasped her hand over his forearm and leaned closer. "You don't have to apologize. Just promise me you'll take care of it."

He gazed at her for a minute, his dark eyes intent on her face. "Okay."

They stared at each other, until Tim finally cleared his throat, saying, "So, this is what I've found."

Without skipping a beat, Speed launched into the details about the bogus pool attendant.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Events had moved rapidly in the case of Gina Cusak/Gloria Tynan and Frank Carbone. Having the Feds step in hadn't made anyone on his team happy, although having them around had set off alarms with Horatio. Eric's discovery of the prints in Interpol also had him wondering, but because the Hannagan case was effectively stalled, Horatio pushed it aside.

Once the Cusak case was for the most part cleared, he put Delko to fishing for prints from the victim on Islamorada and had Speed double checking the night shift's results. Cause of death was a single gun shot to the temple, which spoke of a simple execution, but the post-mortem destruction was nothing short of torture – or revenge. Had the victim not already been dead, his injuries would have done the job twice over. Absolute overkill. And there were clues in the pattern of abuse – genital wounding, dissection of the mid-section, and tongue removal that all spoke of a crime of rage. Rafe of the up close and very personal kind.

He'd seen this handiwork before, he just wasn't entirely sure when. For now, though, Horatio had to focus his considerable attention elsewhere. Once the Feds were gone. . . .

Sorcha Hannagan and her plight were never far from his thoughts.

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Speed approached Calleigh in the hallway, not recognizing the man she was talking to, but noting her thinly masked tension. He shot her a look, then eyed the older man, nodding a greeting in his direction. Calleigh didn't introduce them, instead smiled a little too brightly and blushed.

It wasn't hard for her to pick up on his concern, since she knew him so well, but seeing him gave her the out she needed to escape having yet another long discussion with her father about his drinking. Breaking away from him, Calleigh made it to the front desk in time to see Paula hand off the Hannagan file to Tim.

"Speed, hold up."

He waited, flapping the file against his leg, the other arm carrying the box of evidence from the case. "I thought we had all the evidence?"

"Apparently not. Valera found some hairs from a scene on one of the Keys. We gotta add this stuff into the rest."

She stared at him for a minute, not sure she understood him. "From the Cardoso scene?"

"No. From the scene on Islamorada the night before last." He turned as she caught up to him, heading toward the layout room.

"Another crime scene connected to this girl?"

Before she could make another comment, Horatio broke in. "Seems trouble follows Miss Hannagan like the plague."

"Horatio, we've got three crimes tied to her and we still have no idea where she is." Calleigh was shaking her head, concern filling her eyes.

"The only good news in all this is that we know she's still alive."

His look encompassed the two detectives and he grimaced when Speed added, "We don't know anything about the baby, though."

"Let's find them before anything else happens." He opened the door to the layout room, letting them precede him, saying, "Lay it all out and see what we have. Eric's running some prints and he should have something shortly."

Calleigh got to work, writing it all out on the transparent board, making corrections as Speed unpacked the newest evidence.

"We have no idea when she got pregnant, but we have a general idea of when the baby was born." Calleigh pointed to the date of the crime scene at the Marseilles. "Based on an analysis of the DNA and other blood enzymes, we think the baby is no more than two months old. The amount of HCG and prolactin indicate a recent birth. My best guess is the baby's about a month old."

Horatio glanced down at the file, opening up the thick manila folder. "Were you able to isolate any placental tissue?"

"No. That's one reason why we decided to place the infant's date of birth about a month earlier. If she had delivered the baby later, we'd have some trace of that." Tim pushed the printout across the table toward Horatio, commenting, "And then there's the other contributions."

Calleigh made a face. "Our guy is gross and having sex just after she's given birth is pretty disgusting."

"More than likely it was non-consensual."

Before any of them could comment further, Delko entered the layout room, holding out a bunch of printouts. "I got it, H."

"What's that?" Calleigh moved toward the table, dry-erase marker in hand.

"Using Speed's brilliant idea to run the prints through Interpol, I checked for more of our unknowns."

Calleigh shot an unreadable look at Tim, who smirked in her direction. Her smile brightened for a second and she leaned over to whisper at him, "Nice going."

"So what have we got?"

"Prints from the Islamorada vic come back to a Jesse Lopez, a Dominican national. No warrants for the U.S., but he is wanted for questioning by MI-6 in connection with a botched gun deal between an unknown source and an extremist Islamic group based in Southampton."

"Wasn't one of the other guys wanted by MI-6?"

"Gutierrez, the drug overdose, which I'm beginning to think was staged came back with warrants in three countries. One here in the States and two in Guatemala and Honduras. Headless guy – Vanegas – comes back with a whole dossier from MI-6." Speed picked up pictures, securing them to the light board.

"All right, let's walk through the time-line." Horatio stood at the head of the table, staring down at all the evidence.

Speed blew out a breath, launching into the explanation. "Sorcha Hannagan went missing on November 18, 2000. Trail went dead until March 29, 2002 when traces of her blood and her fingerprints were found at the scene of the Vanegas and Gutierrez murder scene." He paused, pointing out the knife. "Only link between the two is the knife, which separated Vanegas' head from his torso."

"Four days later we have our latest crime scene. " Calleigh looked down at the photographs. "The only reason we got anything there is because the locals couldn't handle the scene, right?"

"Right. Valera found hair. We haven't gone through the rest of the evidence." Speed shrugged. "I haven't even started the sheets."

"That's our first priority. Speed, you and Calleigh work on that. Eric, I want you and Tyler tracking down everything you can find on our bodies. Pay particular attention to associates and recent travel. Horatio picked up the blown-up picture of Sorcha. "We have two people to rescue."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Anyone ever notice how badly the timelines were managed in this show? shakes head No one, but no one was paying attention at all. And I thought Joss Whedon was bad. . . . My thanks to my wonderful beta, Spikeslovebite. Disclaimers in full force and effect. I own nothing but the plot and the original characters. _

_**Seven.**_

The trace lab was quiet, the silence only broken by the scrape of scalpels brushing across the soft cotton sheets and the ever present hum of electrical equipment. Calleigh was running evidence tapes over the pillowcases while Tim was scraping the fitted bottom sheet. They'd been at it for only a little while when the silence started weighing on Calleigh.

She was trying to think of something to say to breach the heavy silence when Tim started speaking. "You gotta wonder about this guy. He snatches this girl from a crowded hotel and disappears for almost two years. And no one sees anything, no one knows anything. Where the hell has he stashed her for two years?"

He paused, staring down at the sheet. "What kind of arrogant asshole are we dealing with?"

Calleigh thought for a moment, adding, "There must be some reason why he's keeping her."

"Yeah. She's a pretty girl." His comment got more of a reaction than he'd expected.

Calleigh had no idea why his observation sparked a flare of jealousy, but it did and she snapped a retort before she could bite her tongue. "No prettier than other girls."

Her tone pulled him up short and Tim jerked his head up in her direction. "It was just an observation. She's not really my type."

Now it was Calleigh's turn to stare at him, surprise on her face. "And what is your type?"

He grunted at her, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "blond", which had her blushing for some reason.

Tim didn't give her the chance to follow up, launching into another commentary. "I'm thinking since most of the victims have been foreign nationals, our guy might've had her out of the country."

"But he wouldn't risk taking her on a commercial flight." Calleigh played along with him, pretending his earlier comment hadn't been overheard. "So we should be looking for private flights."

"Private international flights have to register flight plans and the passengers have to register with the State Department." He transferred some of the scrapings to a test tube, adding it to the growing batch of substances awaiting testing. "One good thing to come out of September 11th."

Calleigh thought for a minute while she peered into the microscope. "Hey, take a look at this."

When he moved to look into the scope, Calleigh didn't move very far, just enough to let him see. His cologne had dissipated hours ago, though when he moved to stand up, Calleigh swore she could smell it. Her mind wandered for a bit, wondering what exactly the scent was and she didn't hear him speaking until he called her name.

"Cal?" She looked up at him, blinking rapidly. "Where'd you go?"

"Sorry. I was just thinking."

"Well, that was obvious. You wanna share?"

_Not really,_ she thought, but recovered quickly. "Just trying to imagine what she's going through. Poor girl."

"Whatever she's thinking, she's not rolling over."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning; she's leaving us clues. I don't think those bloody fingerprints were a mistake."

Calleigh stared up at him. "You think she did it deliberately." Considering that for a second, she asked him, "So what about before?"

He grumped a bit, looking away, then glanced down at her. His eyes snared hers and held her gaze for long seconds. "Her hair will tell us."

Calleigh didn't dare look away and for those long minutes, the world narrowed to just the two of them. A hush grew in the air and she didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until he reached out to brush a stray hair out of her face. Tim very rarely stared at people, though he didn't want to look away. Calleigh's eyes captivated him and for the first time, he actually was close enough to see all the colors swirling there.

Somewhere down the hallway a door slammed, breaking the spell enclosing them. Tim looked away first, fumbling for the slide under the lens. "You should get this to DNA."

He dropped the slide in her hand, his eyes following Calleigh as she walked out the door.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Sorcha sat on the bed, nursing Mairin. The baby's tiny mouth could barely wrap around the nipple and for some reason just the sight of her daughter brought tears to her eyes. Her situation crashed in on her, and Sorcha finally gave into the despair constantly hovering around her.

She missed her family, even her sisters. The fights, the laughter, everything. Sorcha wondered if her parents were still searching, if they were both okay, wondered if they were worried. Too much time had passed. Surely life must have gone on without her, babies born, marriages, graduations. . . . and, God forbid, deaths. When she disappeared, her grandmother hadn't been in the best of health, and she'd been pushing eighty-five . . .

The drugs Gonsavlo had used to control her were long out of her system, though she knew the only reason he had stopped them was because of the infant at her breast. Why he'd made that decision escaped her. The thought that he wanted Mairin healthy chilled her to the bone, afraid of what he might want her for.

Mairin's hand curled around the swell of her breast, Sorcha's tears wetting her tiny fingers. "This is no life for you, mo croi. It's not safe. I can't keep you safe. . . . "

Knowing she was going to tear out her own heart, Sorcha whispered her intentions to her daughter. She didn't realize she'd spoken in English until a deep voice interrupted her.

"Might not be the worst idea."

Sorcha turned wild, fearful eyes to the intruder, her body poised for flight. She relaxed infinitesimally when she realized who it was.

In the whole time she'd been with Gonsalvo, and heaven only knew how long that really was, Hector had been there. And in all that time, he'd probably directed no more than ten sentences at her. The most he'd ever said was right after killing Lopez. Sorcha eyed him warily, her gaze flitting to the locked door behind him.

His voice was low, pitched so that anyone outside the room would be unable to hear them. "We're still in Florida."

The statement took her completely by surprise until she registered the importance. Her quick glance up at him was rife with unspoken questions, but she only responded with a rhetorical remark. "Are we now."

Hector nodded, moving closer to the two of them. Careful not to crowd her, he still didn't bother to resist the urge to brush a gentle finger over the baby's head. The contrast – the smallness of Mairin's head compared to Hector's big hand – brought home to Sorcha how very fragile her daughter really was. And how dangerously vulnerable.

Sorcha backed away, covering the baby's head protectively. Though she trusted him a little, he was still working for the man holding her captive. _So why now, after all this time was he approaching her . . . and what were his motives?_

"For at least another week."

She said nothing, waiting for him to finish. He didn't disappoint her. "His business here isn't finished."

"I don't want to know," she shot out before he could finish speaking.

Hector had no intention of telling her. Instead he hunched down, squatting in front of her. Telling himself it was only to make her move comfortable and had nothing to do with seeing her eyes, Hector kept his gaze averted from her exposed breast.

"When this deal is completed, he's moving us all. He hasn't said where yet, but my guess is someplace where I can't . . . won't be able to help you." He paused, his attention caught by the baby's milky burp. Sorcha's nipple popped free and Hank found his mouth suddenly dry.

Covering his inattention with a soft cough, he smoothly continued, "At least here, she'll probably end up with your family."

Sudden hope flared in her eyes, but died just as quickly. "You can't promise that."

Fresh tears fell, covering her bared breast and the sleeping baby. "I don't know if I can do it."

Though neither one said it, they were both more than aware of the subject. Letting the baby go would destroy Sorcha, but keeping her would, no doubt, destroy Mairin.

Raising her teary gaze to Hector's kind one, she repeated her earlier statement. "I don't know if I can."

His warm hand reached out to cup her cheek, wiping away her tears. "I know." His thumb settled just under her eye and he whispered, "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

And before she had a chance to decipher his actions, Hector was gone.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Calleigh blew back into the Trace lab, like the hounds of hell were on her heels, DNA reports in hand. Tim looked up when she started speaking before she cleared the door.

"Breast milk and saliva, specifically baby drool."

When he didn't respond, she huffed at him. "Aren't you gonna ask if we got a profile from the DNA? Huh?"

"Dazzle me."

"It's a girl." Her smile faltered a little when he blinked, his look suddenly grim.

"So it's a baby girl. Any idea how old she is?"

"There's no traces of colostrum, so it still fits within the time line and our guess was pretty accurate." Grabbing the marker, Calleigh put a star on the baby's approximate date of birth, adding the symbol for female. "At least we have that."

"Be better if we had some idea where they are." Tim's expression hadn't changed, and his dour mood squashed Calleigh's exuberance.

"I know." Her voice dropped a bit when she continued, "Maybe Eric's found something."

He nodded, and before he could speak the mass spectrometer beeped, indicating it was done. Another grim look entered his eyes as he scanned the reports and he tossed the results onto the table. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We already know where she's been."

Tim stared off into the distance, not really seeing the lab walls in front of him, a faraway look in his eyes. Calleigh hated it when he got distant, when he retreated from all contact. It made her uncomfortable. She liked Tim – if she was honest with herself, she more than liked him – but she couldn't bear his moodiness sometimes. It was bad, especially in the last couple of weeks. Despite knowing the truth about the shoot-out and intellectually knowing he wasn't responsible for Officer Hollis' death, Tim still blamed himself.

They'd never crossed the line between co-worker and casual acquaintance to something else, but Calleigh's instinct was urging her to make a move here and now. If he rejected the comfort she was offering, so be it. But she had to try.

His posture spoke loudly of some deeply felt unexpressed emotion and Calleigh couldn't stop her instinctive response. Tim Speedle looked like a man in need of a hug. Lord knows she wanted one.

Before her logical brain could override her instincts, Calleigh's feet took her to his side.

Tim looked down to find her standing beside him, an emotion swimming in her eyes that he didn't dare give a name to. Unsure of himself, his own emotions in turmoil, Tim found himself responding. Without giving it much thought, he snaked his arm around Calleigh, holding her against his side.

"Gets really hard, you know, dealing with this all the time." She looped her arms around his waist, letting her face rest on his chest. "There aren't many happy endings."

"We're lucky if we get closure." Thinking of the cases, the few unsolved they hadn't been able to close, the suicides, the accidental overdoses, and the ones where the evidence was so inconclusive, it could drive even the strongest person to despair.

"This isn't just about the Hannagan girl, is it?" Calleigh looked up at him, putting her hand on his chest, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. Tim's hand covered hers, his warmth spreading through her.

"Just the last in a long line." He shifted, hugging her close, then stepping away. Taking a look around the lab, Tim knew he needed a break. Making a quick decision, he turned back to where Calleigh was still standing.

"Wanna go for a ride?"

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Interpol was a gold mine, providing complete dossiers on both Vanegas and Lopez. And, after knowing how the Feds showed up, Eric kept expecting a James Bond type to come strolling through the doors.

What he did get was Horatio suddenly standing behind him, watching as Eric pulled up all the files on the identified victims.

"Have they come through with our request for known associates?"

"Ah, yeah. So far we have a list of six names in common. I figured we should start with the commonalities, then move out from there."

"Good job." Something on the screen caught Horatio's eye and he focused Eric's attention on it. "What's that?"

"State Department tagged them on a private flight arriving on March third."

"Together?" At Eric's affirmation, he then asked, "Where did that flight originate?"

Pulling up a different database, Eric checked the information. "Flight arrived at four thirty in the morning from the Azores."

"Who owns the plane?"

"Not clear. I'm gonna have to do more digging." Eric glanced over his shoulder at his lieutenant, who was smiling grimly.

"You do that and get back to me."

"Okay, H."

But Horatio was already gone.

_**to be continued. . . .**_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: I hated how the writers dumped on Speed after they lamely killed him off. Couldn't someone come up with a better idea? Christ, I thought these people got paid to write creatively. . . . oh wait. I'm complaining about a group of people who thought nothing of putting a surfboard manufacturer in Florida. . . or a tsunami hitting Miami. . . or. . . throws up hands Never mind. Forget I said anything. rolls eyes Disclaimers in full force and effect; I own nothing._

_**Eight**_

This wasn't the first time she'd been on the back of his motorcycle, but it was the first time they'd headed out with no clear destination. She was tucked up close to Tim, their torsos close, her arms tight around his waist, her thighs resting just behind his. The Ducati wasn't exactly built for two, but at the moment neither of them really cared.

While he steered the bike through the early evening traffic, Tim focused all of his attention on the road. Calleigh's fists were tucked low on his hips, her thumb and fingers wrapped around his belt. She'd done this the last time he'd given her a ride and he hadn't given it a second thought. At least not then.

Now though, his skin was tingling.

She was pressed up close to him, her breasts resting just below his shoulder blades. Tim dared a glance down when she flexed her fingers, getting a better grip on his belt. A wry grin crossed his features and he was instantly thankful Calleigh couldn't see it.

With a shift of his hips and shoulders, Tim easily wrestled the Ducati around a snarl of cars on the causeway heading north. Calleigh shifted with him, then rested her head between his shoulders.

Feeling the tension ease from his muscles with every mile they traveled further from the lab, Tim hit I95 and let out the throttle.

For now, all he wanted to feel was her behind him and the road stretched out in front.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Hank had thought long and hard before approaching Sorcha. The whole time he'd debated with himself about it, he'd known any slip could cost all three of them their lives. But he couldn't stand by and do nothing. Not any longer. The poor girl was beginning to come apart at the seams, and anyone with half a brain and a trained eye could see it. The inability to control anything about her life was preying on her, and it was only a matter of time before she snapped.

It wasn't part of his job to help her. In fact, the last communication he'd received had mentioned specifically that he was not to intervene at all. She was a civilian and a civilian she would stay, even if she was a kidnapping victim.

Hank no longer cared what his orders were. Not when it came to her. An ingrained, inherent sense of honor had driven him to serve his country. It was driving him now, goading him to act where his superiors had refused.

The life of an innocent baby rested solely on his shoulders.

The only hope she had, and by extension her mother, was him. Hank wouldnt allow them to become casualties. He'd do anything in his power to get them to safety.

Standing idly by was no longer an option; neither was failure.

Closing the door to El Comadreja's suite of rooms, Hank counted it a small victory that he'd gotten the other man to release the two from their current windowless prison.

Now all he had to do was plan and wait.

Sooner, rather than later, Sorcha was going home.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Eric had no idea how late it was, or how long he'd been searching through the numerous databases looking for any clues regarding Sorcha Hannagan's whereabouts. All he really knew was that he had to take a break. His eyes were tired, his head was pounding and his stomach had been growling steadily for the last twenty minutes.

Debating with himself for another ten, all the while hitting one dead end after another, he finally conceded defeat. The riddle of who owned the Cessna Citation that had flown from the Azores to Miami would have to wait for another day.

Backing up all the files and printing out the most important parts, Eric simultaneously flipped open his cell phone and dialed Speed's number. On the fourth ring, voicemail kicked in and Eric left a message.

By the time he had all the paperwork in order, another twenty minutes had passed. Realizing Tim hadn't called him back, Eric redialed as he made his way through the halls toward the exit. "Yo, Speed, I'm hungry. I figured we could shoot the breeze while I get something. Call me when you get this."

Frowning down at the device, Eric finally registered the time. It was inching close to nine thirty and he couldn't wait for Speed to get something to eat. Hunger was quickly becoming an issue.

The cool night air felt good after the static environment of the lab and Eric changed his mind about ordering out. Instead, he headed toward his parent's house. He was guaranteed food there and he wouldn't have to shell out money for it, either.

Giving Speed one more call, Eric was surprised when the message this time was 'out of range'.

_Huh. Where the hell did he go this time?_

_&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&_

The cell phone at his hip vibrated, but Tim ignored it. He usually turned it off before heading out on his bike, since it was nothing more than an annoying distraction, but with the welcome addition of Calleigh's company, he'd forgotten about it. He wasn't sure of the time, though he knew they'd been on the road for a while. The sun was long gone and the air had started turning cooler.

His denim jacket was providing enough cover, but Calleigh wasn't wearing anything as warm. Though she didn't feel cold – quite the opposite – Tim knew it had to be chilly back there. Calleigh's arms were secure around his waist, tucked underneath his jacket. She hadn't once tapped him to indicate she was tired or needed to stop, and he was beginning to think her stamina equaled his own. If they'd been in a car, he'd've sworn she'd fallen asleep, but doubted she'd be that foolish on the bike.

She jumped a bit when his phone buzzed a second time, and he moved his arm, squeezing hers against his side. He half thought she might reach for it, but she made no move to do so. Instead her thumb stroked over his side, driving him to distraction. Checking the gas gauge, he realized they were going to have to stop soon.

Tim glanced up at the exit signs, surprised to see the next one was for Daytona Beach. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, Tim angled the bike toward the exit.

Hopefully, Calleigh wouldn't be too pissed at him when they stopped.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Night shift was out and the lab was mostly quiet, dark and unoccupied, when computers and printers whirred to life.

The fax machine rang, pages spitting out while two of the computers beeped, alerting the empty room of incoming mail.

All the queries Delko had sent out earlier were yielding information; but no one was there to retrieve it.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Sometimes a story takes a long time to germinate, and sometimes the muse strikes you over the head with an anvil and suddenly you look like Wile E. Coyote after a run in with the RoadRunner and you've got all this paper surrounding you and: lo, behold, it's a plot. Unfortunately, I don't always get that Wile E. Coyote moment. . . . but I did this time. LOL. Enjoy.I own nothing but the plot, the original characters and maybe some minor grammatical errors. This is for randomwriting (thanks for the support!!!), because she's the best. Everything else belongs to someone way richer than I am. Pooh._

_**Nine**_

Calleigh emerged from the waking trance she'd been in since they started cutting through the early evening traffic on I95 heading out of Miami. Tim pulled the Ducati into the first gas station and easily hopped off. He stretched, popping bones and muscles, while Calleigh slowly tried to do the same.

Before he reached for the pump, her pain-filled gasp caught his attention and Tim turned to face her. The misery she tried to mask hit him hard and guilt flooded through him. Instantly, he was at her side, helping her off the bike. "Shit! Cal, are you okay?"

"I think I've been better." Despite the pain and throbbing in her thighs, Calleigh smiled up at him. "I'll do, just as long as I don't have to get back on for a while."

"About that, Cal . . . " Tim wouldn't look at her, a frown marring his features.

"What?" She walked around a little bit, flexing her toes and trying to get the blood pumping again.

"Ah. . . did you notice where we are?" Still avoiding her gaze, Tim filled the gas tank.

"Not really. I was kinda just enjoying the ride. Why? Where are we?"

He sighed, not really wanting to see her expression when he broke the news. Trying to avoid answering her for as long as possible, Tim fiddled with the gas tank.

"Speed?" Calleigh winced at her own tone of voice and she looked around. Not recognizing anything, she glanced up at him, then down at her watch. Blinking at the time, Calleigh didn't believe they'd been on the road for so long. "Tim?"

Another sigh broke from him and he kept his eyes averted. "We're in Daytona."

Leaving her there, he went inside to pay for the gas.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Gonsalvo himself announced her move into a different room. He pushed open the door to her current space, extravagantly dressed and elegantly groomed. Sorcha knew immediately he was on his way out and surprised herself with her extreme indifference.

"Come with me."

Giving her a moment to gather up the baby, he ushered her from the room.

This house, like the one where Lopez had been killed, was a private estate, gated and secured, with private beach property. Sorcha had barely gotten a fleeting impression of the house upon their arrival days before, and then only a small part of the grounds.

Spanish style architecture dominated this estate, the spacious rooms accentuated by a mosaic tile floor and cream colored walls. Had she been other than a captive guest, Sorcha might have had more of an appreciation for it. As it was, all she did was make note of the placement of the furniture and the location of the rooms.

Oddly enough, none of the additional guards were present. The only other person in the house appeared to be Hector, which eased the tight band constricting her chest. The presence of too many new faces made her very uneasy. That her wariness always proved wise did nothing to help Sorcha's peace of mind. If anything, it worsened.

A growing sense of – she wouldn't necessarily term it doom – but something portentous was coming. The air around her always felt oppressive, no matter how cold the air conditioning was kept; she found it harder and harder to catch a deep breath. Her nerves were strung taut, her body always aware of the men around her. She wondered sometimes, if this were how a trapped animal must feel, when the hunter approached, gun drawn and aimed for shooting.

Hopefully the doom was not her own.

Gonsalvo led her through the house, moving swiftly. With a flourish that made the situation incongruous, he opened a set of double doors. "This is for you."

The tile floor continued into the room, which was obviously a private, separate living area. Two small white leather couches faced each other across a wide glass and iron coffee table. An entertainment center was at the far end of the room, the glass and iron of the coffee table replicated with the addition of dark wood. It was a handsome room, but it left her feeling a bit more unsettled than before.

Leading her through the rooms, Gonsalvo pointed out the amenities as if she were an honored guest instead of a valued hostage. She did not speak, knowing any sarcasm or disinterest on her part would result at the very least her removal back to the old room. She shuddered to think of the other alternatives.

A small kitchen with maid's room was adjacent to the sitting area, and beyond that was a private, enclosed garden with a covered walkway and a burbling fountain in the center. Two bedrooms opened into the garden and Gonsalvo magnanimously allowed her to choose one.

He caught her by surprise when he said, "Hector will be here with you. There is a maid who will cook and clean."

Sorcha stared at him, a confused look on her face. She quickly schooled her expression, merely nodding her acknowledgment.

Apparently satisfied with her response, Gonsalvo left her there.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He felt her eyes boring into his back all the way inside to the pay for the gas. Tim hunched his shoulders, anticipating the inevitable explosion of Calleigh's temper. He though about hiding out inside, but he realized sooner or later she was going to give him what for, and he'd much rather there be as few witnesses as possible.

Bracing himself for the inevitable, Tim headed back outside.

Calleigh was standing by the Ducati, her hand resting on the seat, the helmet in her other hand, staring up at the night sky. She was facing partially away from him and by the set of her shoulders he could see she was still in pain.

He walked up beside her, glancing up to see what captured her attention, then down at her face. "Hey."

"Hey back," she answered.

_Well_, he thought, _that was certainly non-committal_. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" She dropped her eyes to look at him.

He was facing away from her, almost as if he were afraid to look at her. "For dragging you out here."

"Tim, I'm a big girl. I could have asked you to stop, and I certainly could have said no to begin with. I don't mind really." She smiled, laughing softly. "I just don't know if I'm ready to get back on this thing just yet."

"You're gonna need to, if you wanna get back sometime tonight." He still avoided her gaze, this time staring at something over her right shoulder.

"I don't know if that's the wisest thing to do." She blew out a breath, gathering her courage to say what needed saying. "Look, I'm tired, so you must be. I'm hungry, too." She moved then, gaining his eye. "Why don't we get something to eat and crash for a bit?"

"Okay. I could eat."

She laughed, the sound lightening the tension between them. "Speed, I have never known you to turn down food."

Took him a minute to get what she was saying, but when he did, he just chuckled with her.

"Fair enough."

"So, we're gonna go get some food, right?" She looked at the bike, a slight frown marring her features. "That means I have to get back on this beast. . . . "

"Well, just for a little bit longer. There's a place I usually eat whenever I'm up this way. Kitchen should be open for another hour. You gonna be okay?" He watched her stare at the bike.

"I'm game."

"Foods really good. I promise."

"Well, you know, I've trusted you this far. In for a penny. . . . "

With that she smiled up at him and hid her hair in the heavy silver helmet. "Let's go, Speedle. You promised me food."

He shook his head at her resiliency. Settling his helmet on his head, Speed helped her onto the back of the bike. Two minutes later, they were on their way.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Muriel waited quietly while her husband of only two years dragged the garbage cans out to the curb. It irked her no end whenever he did it, because the grating of plastic on the road surface was like nails on a chalkboard. She braced herself for the noise, clenching her teeth together and holding onto the doorjamb with fingers crippled with arthritis and age. She was seventy-seven now, and George couldn't know how his habit of dragging garbage cans irritated her. He wouldn't understand anyway. George was four years younger, and she was damn lucky to have him, even with his irksome habits. She could put up with them. After all, anything was better than being alone.

She was still waiting for the noise to start when he reappeared in the kitchen, his tanned face blanched of all color. Her first thought was _Oh, dear God, he's having a heart attack_, and he spoke quickly, his words not helping her panic.

"Muriel, dear, could you please dial the police."

"Why? What's wrong? Should I call your doctor?"

He shook his head at her obvious panic. It was understandable, after all, since her first husband had just dropped dead in his tracks. "No, dear, I'm fine," George replied.

"So then why should I call the police?"

He moved toward the phone himself, holding up a hand to halt her questions. As he reached for the phone he said, "I'm fine dear, but there's a head in the bougainvilleas."

"What?"

"You heard me, dear." When she started to get up, George motioned her to stay put. "Don't. It's pretty rotten."

"Oh." Muriel fanned herself, feeling faint and very lightheaded. He took one look at her while he was on the phone with the 911 operator and requested that ambulance she had mentioned.

George had a feeling she might need it.

_**to be continued. . . .**_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Though I wish it was, this story is not my main focus. I've got three other stories that are works in progress in the BtVS genre – one of which is a somewhat short story just under 300,000 words (and that's a sequel). They are posted under my other name, Niamh, at various Spuffy archives, including The Spuffy Realm, Elysian Fields and Vampire's Kiss, in case anyone's interested, and if you aren't no worries, I won't be insulted. I do have a plan for this, and will work on it until it's finished, so while updates will be coming, they're going to be a bit sporadic. My apologies if this upsets anyone. Disclaimers in full force and effect._

**Previously:** A headless corpse and a drug overdose were found in the same hotel room and other than proximity there's nothing tying the two to the disappearance of Sorcha Hannagan. Calleigh and Tim have slipped away, traveling further than either of them expected and the night shift has just discovered a head without a body. This picks up following the last installment.

_**Ten**_

The food was really good, home-style and very filling. Calleigh sat back with a huge smile that nearly blinded Tim. "Lord, I haven't had food this good in a while."

He smirked at her reaction. "Told you it would be."

"I'm sorry I ever doubted you." She toyed with her fork, debating with herself about taking another bite.

"I grew up in restaurants, Cal. I hope I know what I'm talking about."

Calleigh looked at him, surprise on her face. "I didn't know that."

A shrug and a small smile accompanied his elaboration. "My dad owns a string of restaurants. Some in Syracuse and a couple more in Queens."

"Really? So can you cook?" A sly look entered her eyes and Tim had the feeling he was about to get hooked by her.

"I can. My dad made sure of it. Spent my summers all through high school and college cooking in one or the other of the restaurants."

She was shaking her head in disbelief. "I learned more about you tonight than in the past three years of working beside you."

Tim looked away, his glance lighting on something to his right. Another slow shrug rolled across his shoulders. "It's not exactly a secret."

"No, but we've never sat down, just us two. Usually Eric's with us."

Silence fell between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable at all. Tim leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out beneath the table. His eyes finally settled on Calleigh's features and he watched as her cheeks pinkened. A sudden yawn caught her by surprise and her blush deepened.

Tim glanced down at his watch, surprised to see it was creeping toward eleven. He knew he might be able to get back on the bike and get at least part of the way back to Miami, but Calleigh wouldn't. And truth be told, he probably shouldn't try. It could be potentially dangerous. He needed to get some sleep, he just wasn't sure how to broach the subject to the woman sitting across the table from him.

Nor did he know if they were going to be able to get two rooms at this hour, but he had to at least bring up the subject.

Before he could speak, though, Calleigh beat him to the punch.

"Hey, Tim, do we have to head back now? Wouldn't it be safer if we got some sleep and headed back early in the morning?"

He chuckled, low and husky, which traveled right through her. "Was just about to suggest that."

"I don't think I could get on the bike just now." She grimaced from just the thought of the prospect.

"Figured you'd feel that way." He threw his napkin down on the table, saying, "C'mon, let's get out of here."

Minutes later, they were walking down Ocean Shore Drive in Ormond Beach, the full moon casting shadows on the sidewalk. Tim guided Calleigh toward the one hotel he figured had a good chance of having two rooms available at this hour of night. He was explaining all this as they walked, for once talkative, while Calleigh just listened.

They'd gone about five blocks or so, when the irony struck her. Her soft giggle caught his attention and Tim stopped, looking down at her. "What?"

"Listen to you, all chatty."

"I'm not mute." Slight irritation colored his words and Tim unconsciously tapped his hand against his leg.

"Hey, I'm just teasin' you." She reached over to smooth the wrinkles of his shirt. "It's nice. I like seeing this side of you."

His jaw flexed and a slight blush stained his cheeks and Calleigh took it a step further. "I'm glad you asked me. Thanks."

What hadn't started out anything remotely like a date suddenly took on that quality and Tim found himself responding to her. "Me too, Cal."

He cupped her hand, the one that was resting on his chest and after a long moment, he tugged her with him. "Let's see if we can get a room."

Neither of them noticed his Freudian slip.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Because they'd issued a red flag on anything connected to the Hannagan case – specifically the recovery of a corpseless head – Horatio got a call on his cell just after eleven.

He arrived on the scene as the paramedics were loading an elderly woman into the ambulance. Stopping to talk to Tripp, who was working nights this week, he asked about the woman. "What happened?"

"Husband went to take out the trash, found a head in the flowers grinning up at him." Consulting his notes, he continued, "Went back inside to call it in and the wife had a panic attack. Names are George and Muriel Wysocki. Lived here for about two years."

He looked up, catching Horatio's eye. "He didn't recognize the head."

The redhead finally spoke. "No, I doubt very much they did know him."

"Why's that?" Tripp was confused.

"Because this guy's body is in Alexx' morgue."

"You sure about that?"

With a nod, Horatio said, "As sure as I can be without DNA."

Moving away from the big detective, Horatio headed toward where Edgar Martinez, one of the night-shift crew, was processing the head.

"What have you got there, Edgar?"

"Looks like a gunshot wound to the temple." Edgar tipped the head over, pointing out the small round hole. "No exit wound, so there might be fragments still inside."

"No blood drops?"

"Not a one." Edgar righted the head, shifting to look around at the flowers. "It's obviously a dump. This the guy you've been looking for?"

"Looks like it." Caine stepped to the left, looking underneath the plants.

"You want to take him, lieutenant?"

"No, that's okay. You can finish and leave it for Alexx in the morning. Thanks, Edgar."

Horatio left him there, heading over to where Tripp was speaking with the husband.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The house was quiet. There were none of the usual sounds of guards pacing back and forth across tiled floors, nor did the soft whisper of sibilant Spanish being spoken interrupt the silence. It was so quiet that the lack of noise unsettled her. Sorcha was used to more racket than this. The stifling quiet presaged nothing good and every nerve was strung taut, waiting for something to shatter the silence.

She paced, moving from the bedroom to the garden opening, her footfalls the only distraction. The constant moving from one place to another had her on edge and she knew she needed to calm herself before her unease communicated to Mairin. The last thing she could deal with now was a restless and fretting baby.

Whatever patience she'd possessed had been thoroughly destroyed these past few days. Now she understood completely why she'd been drugged; it wasn't in her nature to just accept this confinement. Vague memories of fighting back, of trying to escape, once even stabbing her captor flickered through her mind. Sorcha felt a sort of grim satisfaction that she hadn't just rolled over and let him do whatever he wanted.

Moonlight sparkled on the gurgling water of the fountain and she found herself staring at it, her mind determinedly blank. She didn't want to think about Gonsalvo or whatever business he might be conducting, preferring to keep thoughts of him at bay. Instead, her mind wandered to the man sharing quarters with her.

Hector was her guard, yet she had a feeling he knew about what she'd done in the hotel. They'd talked, albeit in a round-about fashion, of her chances for escape. And about leaving Mairin behind, for her own safety.

Sorcha did not want to leave Mairin. She feared, if it came down to it that she wouldn't be able to abandon the infant and hope the authorities allowed her parents to take her. Could she take that chance? Was that decision the right one?

Frustrated tears filled her eyes and Sorcha angrily wiped them away. This second guessing herself wasn't going to help. Praying for divine guidance and intervention, she found herself inches from the fountain, her fingers trailing in the cool water. How long she sat there, she didn't know, but prayers formed and flowed from her lips in a jumble of languages, until the silence receded.

Hector watched her from the shadows, his heart clenching with an emotion he refused to give a name to.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He'd entertained a brief hope, given the timing of this impromptu overnight trip, that they'd be able to get two rooms. The motel he always stayed in on trips like this, the Oceanic, usually had a free room or two, even when all the others were booked. It figured though, the way his luck worked, that they'd have one room and one room only. Tim sighed, shifting his gaze back to Calleigh, who was standing by the display of brochures touting fun and exciting things to do in and around Ormond Beach.

She wasn't going to like this. He had a bad feeling about it himself.

Girding for the outrage he knew was about to erupt, Tim braced himself and nodded to the clerk. Handing over his credit card, Tim headed straight for the petite blond.

"Hey, ah. . . " Tim stared down at her, realizing he had no idea what her reaction was going to be. So far, Calleigh had been an absolute trooper, not complaining much about anything. But he was very afraid this was going to be the last straw. "Hey."

Knowing immediately something was wrong, Calleigh looked up at him. His face was grimmer than it usually was and his eyes were focused on a spot over her shoulder. _Uhoh_. . . . "Hey. What's wrong?"

"Yeah. Hey." He was stalling and he knew it. Inhaling deeply, Tim just blurted it out. "About the room. There's only one available."

It took a moment for that news to settle. Her smile faltered, wavering for a moment and was then back. "Well, at least I won't have to worry about oversleeping when you're ready to leave."

Tim stared down at her for long seconds, disbelief coloring his expression. "Cal? You're not pissed?"

"Well, I'm not jumping over the moon about it, but I can't say that it really bothers me all that much. Unless you're bothered. Are you bothered?"

He shook his head before he realized he'd done it, quickly assuring her he didn't mind at all. _Of course you don't mind, jackass. She's gorgeous and you get to see her . . . . _"No, Cal, I'm not upset. I thought you might be."

"I could be, but what's the point? There's nothing either of us can do about it, and I know I can't get back on the bike for another couple of hours. We'll be fine. We're both adults."

"Yeah." He drew out the word, running his hand through his unruly hair. "Yeah."

"Mr. Speedle?" The voice of the motel clerk broke the increasingly awkward moment, and they both turned to face him. "Here's your room key."

"Thanks." Tim headed over to get it, while Calleigh waited for him, her eyes sparkling with amusement over Tim's discomfort.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Tim let her precede him into the room after pushing the door open. The room was like any other hotel room, nondescript decor in shades of ocean blue and tan, designed to soothe the weary traveler. During his trek around the country, Tim had learned a few things. Hotel rooms were all pretty much the same only the levels of cleanliness varied. – a truth that was only solidified when he became a CSI One of the other things he'd learned was always ask the locals where they ate.

Room 317 was like every other room, but he knew this particular hotel washed everything down once the rooms were vacated and even replaced the bedspreads every six months. Ormond Beach had been his last stop before Miami, and he'd worked briefly in the kitchen of the restaurant he'd taken Calleigh to earlier. For the month or so that he'd been in town this, was the hotel he'd lived in.

Calleigh moved toward the big windows on the water side of the room, immediately opening the blinds. Tim realized he was standing in the still open doorway and he took two steps in and kicked the door closed.

A sudden case of nerves hit him and he wasn't sure what to do or how to act. He just wasn't sure how to behave. Being here alone with Calleigh changed everything.

"Hey, Tim?" Calleigh's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Do you mind if I commandeer the bathroom?" She pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear, and his eyes followed the line of her hand as it dropped down to her side. Part of him really wanted to know what Calleigh was thinking, but a bigger part of him was afraid to even start down that path.

Shaking off his reverie yet again, Tim said, "Go ahead." He turned away from her, refusing to watch her go. The awkwardness struck once more, and he just wasn't sure of his footing at all.

The snick of the door closing behind Calleigh loosened something inside him. Before sinking down onto the bed, he shrugged out of his jacket, dumping it haphazardly on the lone chair. Dropping down on the bed closest to the window, Tim leaned down to take off his boots. He had no idea why being here now with Calleigh unnerved him so much. It wasn't like he hadn't crashed on her couch more than once. _So why now?_

Maybe it was because he hadn't allowed himself to think of Calleigh as a woman he could be interested in. Tim ran his fingers through his hair, sighing heavily. Since he was being honest with himself, he had to admit thinking of Calleigh like this made him uncomfortable. Calleigh wasn't some girl from a bar or a club that he could date casually and then just dismiss. And she sure as hell wasn't Pam, who, after two years of dating off and on just . . . . wasn't it. They weren't really suited to each other, though she did put up with his moods. He didn't love her, and she knew it. What was worse, he wasn't ever going to. This time, Tim knew they weren't going to get back together.

And now there was Calleigh. _What the hell am I thinking? We work together. . . every damned day. I see her all the time. . . I don't even know if she feels anything beyond friendship anyway, so why am I all tied up in knots about this?_

The sound of the shower running roused him from his lethargy and Tim stripped down to his boxers. Flipping on the television, he settled into the bed. He tucked his gun into the dresser drawer, after ensuring the safety was on and the clip loaded. Propping up a couple of pillows, he started channel surfing.

He refused to think of Calleigh showering in the next room.

_**to be continued. . . .**_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: I have nothing witty to say at the moment, so just leave it at. I'm sorry about the brevity of this chapter and I hope you'll all understand. I do have more coming though, hopefully by the end of the week. Disclaimers in full force and effect. I own nothing but the people you don't recognize and the plot. Everything else belongs to someone far richer than I._

_**Previously:**_ Tim and Calleigh took off on the Ducati and ended up in Daytona Beach; Sorcha and Hank are alone in the house. This picks up immediately following the last chapter.

**Eleven**

He looked so cute, his body propped against the headboard, soft snores emitting from his mouth. Calleigh wrapped her arms tighter around the towel, water dripping from her hair down her nice clean body. She didn't want to get back into the clothes she'd worn all day, mainly because she was going to have to wear them again on the ride home. She'd done the smart thing too, washing out her underwear and using the hotel provided hair dryer to at least start the drying process. However, that left her with no options for sleep wear. . . _unless_. Calleigh spied Tim's shirt hanging on the chair next to the television and grinned. Okay, so it wasn't clean, but at least it would cover her from shoulders to thighs, and she wouldn't have to worry about not wearing any underwear.

Tiptoeing past Tim's sleeping form, Calleigh nearly jumped out of her skin when he muttered something unintelligible. She stood up straight, body frozen in the act of reaching for his discarded shirt, hoping he wasn't going to catch her in the act. When he lapsed back into sleep, she reached out for it, scurrying like a scared rabbit back into the bathroom. Heart pounding, Calleigh shut the door harder than she intended and again froze. _Geezuz, girl, you're a cop, you should be stealthier than this. Lordy. . . . please don't wake up, stay asleep. _

Waiting in the bathroom for some indication that he'd woken up, Calleigh wriggled into his shirt, hanging the towel on the shower curtain bar. Quickly braiding her still wet hair, she faced herself in the mirror and chuckled. _I look like a teenager wearing her boyfriend's favorite shirt. Girl, you've got it bad._

Not hearing any other noise except for the muted sound of the television, Calleigh slipped from the bathroom. Tim had shifted, slumping slightly so that his head was now at an awkward angle. Emitting a soft sigh, she realized she was going to have to move him, otherwise he'd be in pain come the morning. Calleigh covered the distance between them in short strides. The remote was falling out of his hand and the pillows behind him were all askew. He looked even younger in sleep, despite the darkening of his beard. She understood now why he left it that way. He had such a baby face, looking far younger than his almost thirty years, and the stubble gave him much needed age and gravity. Even so, he was cute with or without the stubble. A smile stole over her features, and had either of them seen it, there would have been no doubt in either mind about Calleigh's feelings, and she gently moved the pillows behind his head.

His sleeping form followed the movement, curling onto his side, his hand brushing over Calleigh's bare thigh. Suppressing the shivers his accidental touch invoked, Calleigh pulled the sheet and blanket over his bare shoulders.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The rooms were all quiet, and Hank moved on silent feet through the mostly empty rooms as he did a sweep. Like most nights, he started and ended his security checks in the same place – just outside Sorcha's door. He didn't like leaving her alone, not since Lopez had tried raping her, even with Gonsalvo's presence in the house.

Whatever deal he'd been setting up was nearing completion and Hank had a feeling everything would be coming to a head at the same time. _Live by the sword, die by it._ And El Comadreja had been living by the sword for longer than Hank knew. He'd gotten a complete dossier on the man before he'd gone undercover, and he'd learned more in the three years he'd been with him – but Hank had had enough. He wanted out.

_I'm gonna be thirty-six on my next birthday and I don't want to spend it gathering intel on this asshole, like the last three. _He inhaled deeply, his brain running through the placement of the surveillance equipment he'd placed throughout the house in an effort to avoid thinking about his situation. Or Sorcha.

There was a complication his life absolutely did not need. And yet. . . . and yet. This time his deep exhalation rattled the peacock feathers standing in a floor vase and he sneezed when dust shifted in the air. He froze, waiting to see if any of the other guards were in this part of the house, waiting for the count of a hundred before he actually moved. Once he was satisfied he was alone, Hank stepped away from the offending peacock feathers heading straight for Sorcha's suite.

He didn't want to care. Not about her. Not about the baby. But he was beginning to think he cared more than he wanted to admit. Somehow, some crazy fucked-up way, she'd gotten to him. Gotten under his skin and made him care.

If he did nothing else in the next two weeks – he was going to make damn certain one of them got away. He'd prefer it be both of them, but if he couldn't manipulate circumstances to free Sorcha, the baby was going to be safe.

The arms deal El Comadreja was brokering had a target date of two weeks.

Two weeks.

There were no cameras in her room, no microphones either. Whoever this estate belonged to, Gonsavlo didn't dare alter anything, something which made Hank both grateful and wary simultaneously. For his purposes now, though, he was damn glad she wasn't under constant surveillance. The last thing he wanted to worry about was El Comadreja finding out what he was about to do. It was bad enough he was doing it.

He'd resisted the urge for so long that it festered, brewing and simmering away, but long enough for him to believe, at least partially that he'd actually managed to completely suppress it. Hank knew he'd been fooling himself. Her child's birth had been the spark to set the urge burning, spewing his feelings through his guts, consuming him.

Somehow, without his permission or his awareness, he'd fallen.

Fallen hard for a woman who by rights, he never would have met. Or should have.

Fate had twisted, turning his life on the thinnest of threads, altering his path.

Covert ops and undercover work hadn't been in his plans. Naval intelligence was just supposed to be a back up, something to do while he recovered from a knife wound that had gotten septic and nearly killed him. Instead, when his superiors realized in addition to the Farsi and Arabic he'd managed to learn, that he spoke another four languages they'd sent him through Quantico and other, more specialized training. Given his exotic looks, inherited from a long dead Cherokee ancestor mixed with his predominantly Scottish heritage, he could blend in easily with nearly any cultural background they decided to supply him with. For the last two years, just before El Comadreja had snatched Sorcha from Miami, he'd been working undercover to infiltrate – and destroy if necessary – an arms dealing syndicate operating between Miami and the Azores.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Neither of them were.

The dossier and cover story provided by the Navy had gotten him entry into the world; however it was his skills and seeming lack of morals that had brought him El Comadreja's attention.

He was trusted – to a point.

And now, he was about to violate that trust.

Hank decided he really didn't care. What was trust given from a man who did the things El Comadreja did?

What kind of man did that make him?

Moving into the room on silent, bare feet, he watched as the moonlight wreathed the tiny infant. Like a spun sugar princess, she slept blissfully on, unaware of how delicately balanced her very existence was. Her mother stirred, feeling the presence of another in the room, alert as only those who are constantly hunted can be.

Before she could move, he was at her side, his hand covering her mouth, the other wrapped tightly around her waist. Hank lowered his mouth to hover just over her ear, his voice a mere extension of his breathing. "It's me."

Her fingers stopped scratching at his hand, and the panicked breathing eased, but only a little. "Relax."

She did, but again, barely enough to give meaning to the term. His fingers eased, sliding down her jaw. Sorcha turned her head, angling so she could see his face. Her voice was no louder than his. "Why?"

"Don't ask." He easily lifted her off the bed, letting the sheet slide down her body. Like her daughter, her pale Irish skin drew any stray bolt of moonglow, and every bit of saliva in his mouth disappeared.

Sorcha stared at him, her eyes searching his for some knowledge only she could see. He didn't doubt she could. He'd seen too much truth come from her mouth to doubt. She touched him then, slim fingers brushing over the hard planes of his face, gossamer soft. Her eyes lost their focus, seeing through him, hand stilled. She barely breathed, her mind intent on what she learned of him, no doubt from the very moon itself. Hank waited, knowing she would snap out of it when her brain finished processing the jumbled images.

He wasn't prepared for her reaction though. Sorcha slumped forward, into his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, silent tears seeping from her eyes. Her hand slipped out of his to rest over his heart and she whispered words he'd never thought he'd hear from her.

"I trust you."

_**to be continued. . .**_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: I lied about how many WIPs I have. I actually started two more after I posted that, so now the number is up to six, including this one. I'm a glutton for punishment. And that doesn't include the original fiction that I've started. Thankfully, though, there's only one of those that's an active WIP, the others are just. . languishing for lack of plot and inspiration. What can I say? I need a powerful muse. Disclaimers in full force and effect – I own nothing but the plot and the original characters, all else belongs to Bruckheimer. I apologize for the long delay, and one of them was because of the aforementioned WIPs, but the other was because the site was being an absolute bugger for the last 5 days and wouldn't let me upload any documents at all. I'm so very sorry. I hope the wait was worth it._

_**Twelve**_

The sky was still dark when Tim shook Calleigh awake, with no hint of sunrise in the distance. He'd opened the curtains blocking the window and the reflection from the full moon still danced on the dark ocean. Calleigh sat up slowly, fighting the urge to ignore him and snuggle back under the blankets. He was walking around in just his jeans and a tee-shirt, looking around for his dress shirt. "Cal, have you seen my shirt?"

He stopped speaking when a huge yawn, followed by an all over body stretch shook the sleep from Calleigh's body. _She's got my shirt on. . . Holy shit._

A sheepish look broke over her features and she gave him a sleepy smile. Tim figured she had no clue what that look was doing to him, because if she did it again, he'd snap. "Sorry. I needed something to sleep in that was more comfortable than my stuff. You don't mind, do you?"

Tim shook his head, trying to clear his throat and not squawk like a teenager when he finally answered her. "No, it's fine. Do you wanna keep it on?"

Calleigh got to her feet and all rational thought fled. The dark blue dress shirt covered her from her shoulders almost down to her knees, but that wasn't why his brain was fried. It was the knowledge that underneath his shirt she was naked. There was nothing between her skin and his clothing. Just the hint of her breast was visible when she moved and Tim found his eyes riveted on the sight. He couldn't breathe. His chest constricted and he could feel the electricity swirling in the room. Tim took a step closer, his fingers itching to touch her.

"You won't mind?"

_Mind? Why on earth would I mind if you wanna to wear my shirt?_ "Ah. No. It's fine." _Oh yeah, it's damn fine with me if you wanna wear my shirt, Cal. Course it's gonna make it damn hard for me to look at you. _

Before he could start babbling like a hormone-crazed teen, Tim turned away, moving back toward his bed. He busied himself with getting his boots back on, surreptitiously stealing looks at Calleigh while she gathered up her clothes and headed off for the bathroom. She bent over, the tail end of his shirt creeping up her thigh and Tim nearly fell over. _Holy . . . . _

Tim breathed a deep sigh of relief when she finally closed the bathroom door behind her. His head dropped down, his fingers digging into his hair. His thoughts were stuck on images of Calleigh wearing nothing but his shirt, golden hair splayed out over mussed sheets. Sheets they'd mussed up together. _Okay, Tim, get a hold of yourself, coz you just don't know if that's how she feels about you. . . so just get a grip._

He must have been lost in thought for a while, because Calleigh emerged fully dressed, his shirt on over her clothes. "You ready to go?"

"Ready as I'm ever gonna be. Can we get some caffeine before we head out?" Calleigh's fingers rolled the hem of his shirt nervously, the only outward sign that she might be agitated about something.

"Yeah, sure. That's a good idea." He couldn't look at her, focusing instead on a spot just over her shoulder.

She glanced at him shyly, which was something he wasn't prepared for. There was usually nothing reticent about Calleigh, but he had to admit, he liked the idea of her shyness. "Is that place we had dinner at open for breakfast?"

"Ah, yeah it is. But not for another fifteen minutes or so."

"Well, by the time we get there, it should be okay. Do we have time to get something to eat, too, or . . ?"

By the look on his face, Calleigh could tell he wasn't thrilled by the idea of a sit-down breakfast, but obviously her question had given him something to think about.

"We have a little bit of time. It's early." Tim checked his watch, wincing at the hour.

"Just what time is it?" Calleigh hadn't glanced at a clock, hadn't needed to, since she could pretty much tell it was before five in the morning, given the color of the sky.

Not daring to look at her, he mumbled. "About four fifteen."

"Tim! You woke me up at four in the morning and you aren't going to feed me?" Her outrage was palpable and he winced, knowing if he didn't feed her now, the anger she should have directed at him hours ago would surface. No doubt she'd level all sorts of curses at him and he knew he deserved every last one.

He turned then to look at her, an apology on his lips, which mollified her only a little. "C'mon, Cal, I'll feed you."

That statement went a long way toward changing Calleigh's mood, but she didn't smile brightly until the first cup of tea was placed in front of her.

Tim refused to admit her smiles lightened his dour mood. He shook his head at himself. At the rate he was refusing to think about Calleigh, he'd soon have nothing to think about at all.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

In the hours since coming to her room, Hank had done nothing more than hold her in his arms, letting her rest peacefully. He hadn't pushed her for anything more, knowing how terribly harsh El Comadreja had treated her – how brutal he'd been. His hands had traced the blue of her veins over and over, soothing strain and worry lines from her brow. He'd teased and sprung the wild curls on her head, smiling when strands wound themselves around his wrist and fingers.

She slept, unaware of his intense scrutiny, unmindful of his staring or the thoughts in his head. The rhythm of her breathing fascinated him, the way her curls corkscrewed about, how the moonlight played upon her skin.

Hank refused to think about the consequences of his actions and what might come of this. This moment – this night – was a gift. Something unexpected, unlooked for, and yet despite all that, completely welcome.

The baby stirred, moving restlessly in her sleep, letting out petal soft gurgles. She'd been asleep when he entered the room, untouched by the worries troubling her mother. Of all of them, she was the precious one, the truly innocent. The one worth the sacrifice nearly three years of undercover work.

He didn't even know her name. Gonsalvo called her Infanta, which was nothing more than a title. Listening to her soft, mewling cries, Hank wondered if her mother had given her a name; one she didn't share.

Sorcha fussed in his arms, her unconscious mind reacting to her child's distress. He slid easily from the bed, crooning softly as he gently lifted the tiny baby from her basket. Struggling to sit, Sorcha held out her hands, her sleepy eyes dark with sleepy worry.

Once in her mother's arms, the squalling ceased, only to be replaced with snuffling and kittenish whimpers. Her small face rooted for her mother's breast, arms and legs pumping madly. Without skipping a beat or caring of his presence, Sorcha opened the buttons of her sleep shirt. A brief glance of a dusky nipple was blocked by the baby's head and Hank released a breath he wasn't aware of holding.

He couldn't look away, couldn't avert his eyes from the sight before him. She was beautiful, sleep tousled and intent on the baby in her arms. Hank leaned back, resting his shoulders against the wall behind him, staying out of Sorcha's direct line of sight.

Sorcha was aware of him, his eyes on her, following her every movement. It was hard to pretend indifference. Hard to hold back that part of herself that was bold, not frightened and took chances.

He didn't dare make a wrong move here, there was far too much at stake for all of them. The infant burping heartily in her mother's arms was the one who would suffer the most, if he wasn't careful.

For her, he had to be. For both of them.

Hank watched her, his eyes trained on the soft swell of her breast and began speaking. "You have to make a choice. I can't make it for you."

Without asking him to elaborate, Sorcha knew exactly what he was saying. She didn't want to be the one to make the decision, though she knew she had too. Closing her eyes against sudden tears, she nodded once. "If we have to. . . if I have to. Then so be it. Mairin must be safe."

His eyes closed over suddenly blurry vision. He had a name now, to go with that sweet baby face.

She wasn't lying earlier, when she said she trusted him. Now he had to live up to her trust and do what was right for both of them. Knowing, all the while, that he'd never be able to see either of them again. That in choosing to help Sorcha, Hank was more than likely signing his own life away. _There are worse things to die for. . . . _

Her head turned to look at him, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. "If it keeps her safe and away from him, it's for the better. I can't protect her."

He nodded once, not saying anything further. Instead his feet led him to her side, and before she could hesitate or push him away, Hank leaned in and kissed her. "I promise I'll try to get you both home."

Sorcha clutched at him with her free hand, her fingernails digging into his hard bicep. "I know." She stared into his eyes, and he reached up to wipe away her tears. A shudder tore through her and she collapsed bonelessly in his arms, the emotional upheaval finally sinking in. "I trust you."

"You shouldn't." He couldn't help the words from rumbling out of his mouth.

She shook her head and a bitter laugh escaped from her. "You are the only one I can trust. You aren't like _him_. You don't belong here anymore than I do." She paused, and he could almost see her trying to choose her words carefully. Her voice dropped to a bare whisper, just a hint of sound against his chest. "I know you. Hector is not your name, though it is close. And you are different from the others. You kill because you must, not because you enjoy it."

He kept his silence, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her words. He didn't dare. The less she actually knew, the less chance of her giving him up when – no, _if _– something were to happen. "I'll keep your secrets, Lieutenant, just as you keep mine."

That startled him, though he fought against the sudden jump of his heart. She felt it, though, since she was wrapped so tightly in his arms. He looked down at her, and her smile was just as bitter as her laugh had been. "Perhaps it's not the right title. . . Though I am close, I will not ask."

"Better you don't." He moved away from her then, sliding off the bed and back toward the door. "He'll be back soon."

But she was shaking her head, her strange eyes fixed on something other than him. "No, he won't. We have some time."

He knew better than to interrupt when she was having a vision, waiting until she finished speaking. "He's away. Two men and," she stopped, closing her eyes against the unseen sights before them, forcing away what her mind had witnessed. "He's being . . . entertained."

By that, Hank knew he was having sex with someone. Or more than one someone, and it would be hours, if not days before he returned. That was fine with him, but he needed to put some distance between the two of them. Otherwise he'd be back in that bed with her.

"I'm going to fix breakfast."

And with that, he was gone.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Calleigh glanced over to her left, resting her head in the middle of Tim's back and watched the sun creep over the ocean. Instead of getting back on I-95, Tim had opted to take the less traveled old Florida Highway, hoping there would be less traffic. So far his hunch had paid off, and they were making great time, even with the leisurely breakfast they'd had. Green and pink streaked the sky and Calleigh's breath caught in her throat. She nudged Tim's side, indicating to him she wanted to stop.

Tim edged the Ducati off the road onto the shoulder, wondering why Calliegh had nudged him. Hopping off, she pulled off the helmet and tugged on his arm. "C'mon, Speed."

"Where are we going?" He followed her reluctantly, unsure about her motives. They were in a deserted section of IA, nothing but the ocean stretched out before them and behind them, closer to land, marsh and few signs of civilization. "Cal? What are we doing?"

Spying the small dune covered with tufts of beach heather and other plant life she didn't recognize, Calleigh said over her shoulder, "We're gonna watch."

She caught the grimace out of the corner of her eye and turned to face him, her hands on her hips and a glint in her eyes that immediately had him on edge. "Timothy Speedle, you need to just lighten up and let go every once in a while. I promise this won't take long at all."

Choosing to ignore her statement about him needing to let things go, Tim focused on the second part of her statement. "What's not going to take long?"

Once more she grabbed his arm, dragging him forward to stand on the top of the dune. She sat down, tugging on his pants leg for him to do the same. "Look."

Her arm stretched out toward the rising sun, a soft lemon yellow glow just peeking over the horizon, which was a pale blue, the greens and pinks streaking the sky, reaching up pale fingers into the still dark blue above them. A slight breeze blew toward them, ruffling their shirts and sending Calliegh's hair into a spindrift around them. A dazzling smile crossed her features and Tim found himself returning her grin. Her good mood was too infectious to resist and he didn't even bother fooling himself about why he enjoyed her company.

Without thinking too hard about it, or the implications of his actions, Tim put his arm around her, hugging her against his side. Calleigh sighed as she snuggled close and wrapped her own arm around his waist.

Neither one of them spoke again until the sun cleared the horizon. Tim didn't want to be the bad guy, since he was enjoying this stolen moment with her so much, but if they didn't make good time, they were going to be very late getting into work. He knew he had a complete change of clothes in his locker, but he seriously doubted Calleigh did. In a reflex movement, Tim leaned into her and brushed a kiss against her temple. "C'mon Cal, we have to go."

She froze at the contact, her heartbeat accelerating and her breathing hitching a bit. _Did he just? He did. . . . _Calleigh closed her eyes, willing away the sudden case of nerves that struck_. I'm not gonna react. I'm not. . . _

Tim also froze, realizing a half second after he finished speaking what he'd just done.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Okay, so my WIPs dropped back down to five, since I managed to finish one of those stories, and at least another one is very close to the end – my Spuffy magnum opus is just about done after over 300,000 words. . . . and I'm feeling a little blue about having it end. The good news is I'm going to be starting on the sequel to that probably soon. sighs Um. So yeah, about that WIP number – forget it. My thanks to Spikeslovebite, who did another bang up beta job. Disclaimers in full force and effect. I own nothing._

Thirteen

When Calleigh didn't clock in at her usual eight o'clock, Horatio just figured she was running a couple of minutes behind. He wanted to advise her about the head and a possible bullet. However, by eight thirty, there was still no sign of her, though her Jeep was still parked in the underground garage. He was starting to think maybe she was just one step ahead of him and they kept missing each other.

Alexx paged him at ten to nine with preliminary information on the trajectory of the bullet, and Horatio paged Calleigh. Ten minutes later she still hadn't answered her page, and he belatedly realized Tim wasn't in yet, either. Nor could he remember seeing the Ducati in the parking garage.

He didn't actually put two and two together until Dispatch paged him. There was a call out for a dead body near Shenandoah Park and no one had rolled. Quickly punching in Calleigh's number and then Tim's, Horatio headed toward the locker room. Neither of them were there, nor had they punched in. Dispatch had no call from either of them, and Paula had no messages. Horatio finally managed to locate Eric at nine twenty-three and he told him not to report in, but to just meet him at the scene.

Engrossed in the difficulties of gathering evidence in a playground, the missing investigators slipped his mind.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

As luck would have it, Horatio wasn't in the lab when they arrived. Their phones had been beeping on and off for the last hour and a half of their trip back into Miami, though by tacit agreement neither had motioned for a stop. The persistence of the beeps left only one conclusion – work was calling.

Since neither one of them wanted to answer the questions their combined lateness would no doubt engender, both ignored the summons.

It was ten thirty when they finally arrived at the lab, the last half hour of the trip fighting through snarled downtown traffic leaving both of them with frazzled nerves. Tim had pulled over just before the exit to Calleigh's place, asking her over his shoulder whether she wanted to be dropped off at her apartment. Her emphatic 'no' was only softened when she leaned into his shoulders, saying sweetly, "I've got a change of clothes in my locker. I can grab a quick shower there."

He nodded, indicating he understood and said, "I'm gonna do that, too."

"Horatio is gonna have our heads. How much longer before we get in?"

A glance down at his watch told him it was about nine-fifty and they were close to two hours late. "Not much longer, I can get through this traffic." He revved the engine and shouted over the roar of the engine, "Hang on, Cal."

She grabbed onto his belt, curling her fingers tightly around the leather as he expertly guided the Ducati in and around the stop and go traffic heading into downtown Miami. He made good on his word too, getting them to the lab within fifteen minutes.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Delko got back into the lab before Horatio, sometime around one in the afternoon. He bypassed the DNA lab, and headed straight for the Trace Lab, hoping that he could run some tests on some unidentifiable gunk he'd found at that morning's call out. He had no idea both Calleigh and Speed were late; he hadn't bothered to ask Horatio why they were the only two on the call-out. He just figured the others had gotten their own.

He was surprised then, by the pallor and sleepy eyes of his partner. "Hey, Speed, late night?"

All Tim did was grunt at him, which wasn't out of the ordinary, so Delko just shrugged it off like he always did. "I called you twice last night. Thought we could hang while I grabbed something to eat."

"Yeah, I was on the road."

"Ah." And that said it all to Eric. He knew Speed sometimes took off on his bike, riding out until the wee hours of the morning. Especially when he couldn't sleep or was bothered by a particularly troubling case. "Did you get any sleep?"

"Couple hours." Tim hit a couple of buttons and started running tests, not giving Eric anything more.

"This stuff can sit for a while, why don't you go sack out in the break room?" Delko handed him the envelopes from his latest case.

Tim shook his head negatively. "Can't. Didn't get back on time, and if H finds out that I fell asleep, he's gonna have my hide."

Eric stopped, staring at him for long minutes. "You got in late?"

"Yeah. Only got back around ten." Tim moved around him, slitting open the first evidence envelope and dumping out the contents. "What the hell is this?"

The stuff was bluish, with a consistency of loose gum, and Tim stared at the bottle it was housed in, while Eric answered his rhetorical question. "Dunno, man, that's your job. I just collect the stuff."

"Thanks, Delko, I appreciate it."

Tim rolled his eyes as he gingerly opened the bottle. Eric stood there watching him for a little bit, but when he realized Speed wasn't going to say anything further, he huffed a bit. "I'm gonna head over to DNA and run some blood evidence."

He didn't wait for Tim's reply, already knowing there wouldn't be one.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Calleigh hadn't lied when she said she could shower quickly or change. Twenty minutes after they clocked in, she was showered, dressed, and on her way to the morgue to see Alexx. Her page was the last, and although it didn't carry an urgent status, Calleigh figured she might as well start her day there.

It was also the least likely place Horatio would look for her.

Shoving aside the guilt she was feeling about being late, since it had been decidedly worth the aggravation, Calleigh sailed into the morgue with a sweet, wistful smile playing about her lips. Tim had been good – and if she were honest with herself, more than good – company. She wanted to giggle madly over him chatting away so uncharacteristically, and then being so sweet in the morning. But the best part about the whole road trip were those twenty minutes they'd spent watching the sunrise. . . . and he'd kissed her. Calleigh forced herself not to touch the spot on her temple, realizing how silly that would look.

"Hey, sugar, where you been all morning?" Alexx' voice broke into her reverie and Calleigh smiled brightly in response. If anyone might understand, it would be her.

Trying hard to corral the smile threatening, Calleigh replied, "Was out of range and I didn't get in until late this morning."

Alexx stared at her, surprise and disbelief warring on her features. "You got in late?" She stepped back, checking out her colleague from head to toe. "Who are you and what _have _you done with my Calleigh?"

The giggle she'd been suppressing for hours erupted from her lips. "Oh, shush, you. I've been known to stay out a time or two."

"Ahuh. Sure you have." Alexx raised an eyebrow, a knowing look on her face. "So, girl, dish."

Calleigh shifted, moving to take the bullet from Alexx, when every leg muscle she had seized up on her and cramps wracked through her. The wince and grimace caught the coroner's attention and she stopped what she was doing and folded her arms across her chest. Her eyebrow rose up, almost reaching her hairline and Alexx stared at Calleigh. "What _were _you doing? And how come you're all tied up in knots?"

The blond ducked her head, trying to hide her blush from the other woman. "I told you, I was out."

"That ain't the whole story." Alexx tsked her tongue, eyebrow still raised, waiting for Calleigh to come clean. "The truth, detective."

The quickly mumbled words didn't register with Alexx until she caught the blush. "What was that?"

Calleigh straightened up, trying to school her features into something resembling nonchalance. "I went for a ride."

"And the rest of that sentence?"

"Alexx," Calleigh whined out her name, but all Alexx did in response was smile at her. With a huff and quick glance around the empty morgue, Calleigh finally caved and told the other woman the truth.

"Fine. I was with Speed."

"What? You were out with my Tim?" Shocked disbelief slackened her dark face and her smile thinned a little. "You were out _all _night with Timmy?"

"Ahuh."

"What were you two doing?"

Calleigh quickly waved her hands, trying to quell Alexx's maternal instincts. "It wasn't like that! We went for a ride on the Ducati."

"Really?" The sarcasm wasn't lost on Calleigh, who got even redder.

"It wasn't like that!" She leaned in, and in a breathy whisper said, "Lord, Alexx, my thighs are still quivering."

The smirk that greeted her statement had Calleigh groaning internally, which worsened when Alexx said, "Sounds like one helluva ride."

_**to be continued . . .**_


End file.
